Exhuming McCarthy
by everybetty
Summary: This was a bunny raised by Kristen999 and everybetty together. After a tragic accident, Sheppard concentrates on recovering while everyone else deals with the political hornets' nest it stirs up. Set S4. Team fic plus Lorne, Keller, Carter and Zelenka.
1. Chapter 1 of 22

Teyla Emmagan had witnessed the celebrations of hundreds of different cultures already in her young life thanks to her role as Leader of her people on Athos and her time with the Terrans from Atlantis. While life on her home world of Athos had been difficult, they had commemorated important anniversaries and celebrated the births of babies. They had even had rare opportunity to celebrate the slow passing of the elderly, warm in their beds, surrounded by loved ones as they took their last breaths.

She had seen debauched parties replete with alcohol and other mind-altering substances. Guests in various states of dress and undress, eating, dancing, singing and enjoying sexual communion with each other. And she had been witness to solemn ceremonies where no one spoke for hours on end and food and drink were not only not served, but were forbidden.

This celebration fell comfortably in the middle of those extremes. Men and women mingled here in loose groups, talking and laughing, graciously partaking of food items from silver salvers that were carried around by quietly reserved servers. Teyla smiled and nodded her thanks as she reached over to remove a small piece of bread, with what appeared to be a sliver of dried fish on it, from a server's tray. It was oily and salty but the crusty bread made a nice complement to it.

"Pretty good, huh?"

She looked up at her companion, John Sheppard. He was smiling, licking his thumb appreciatively.

"Not bad," she agreed with an answering smile. "You seem in better spirits, Colonel."

"Well, _His Highness _hasn't bothered me in..." He shot his watch forward on his wrist and raised impressed eyebrows. "Hey, look at that. It's been almost an hour. I think that calls for another of those sardine-y things." He darted his hand out and skillfully snagged another snack from a passing tray, grinning and waggling his eyebrows at the pretty woman carrying it.

Teyla rolled her eyes and straightened her skirts, brushing the woolen fabric free of a strand of dried grass. Her dress was modest by most standards, long-sleeved and full length, but the sueded leather bodice that cinched in her bosom was cut too tightly and she tried to ignore the way her newly larger breasts hovered only inches below her chin. It would have fit just fine a few months ago, but she smiled at the thought that it was worth the discomfort. At least she could find some reassurance in the 9mm she had strapped to a leg holster under the voluminous fabric.

Sheppard stood in apparent ease in his outfit. The fabric of the tunic and pants was soft and vanilla pale, the vest in charcoal and of the same suede her bodice had been made from. She knew a matching holster held his Glock above the soft leather boots he wore.

A bell rang from the house up the hill and people began making their way to the tables that had been lined up under the fabric tents. Bright pennants hung atop the tents snapped giddily against the bright blue sky; the strong breezes that had kept them comfortably cool had whipped up a bit and she felt her hair lift free of her shoulders.

"Shall we?" she heard John say and she looked over to see he had crooked an arm at her. She nodded politely and placed her hand on his arm and allowed him to escort her to an outer table.

When he pulled her chair out she smirked and played along, nodding demurely as she pulled her skirts to the side and sat down. John took the seat next to her and sat back in his chair. To the casual observer he was relaxed, just another hungry party-goer waiting on the first course. But Teyla knew better. His eyes never stopped scanning and the location they had chosen gave him a view of the entire dinner seating area as well as the house and the woods beyond.

"Perhaps I should go ask His Highness to join us for dinner," she ventured reluctantly. She got the reaction she suspected she'd receive. John's face darkened in a scowl; his eyebrows sank until they practically met above his nose and he began drumming his fingers on the table. He sighed, then appeared to gather himself and nodded once, shortly. "You're right. Glad I ate all those snacks earlier- I expect I'll be losing my appetite soon," he muttered.

He rose from his chair and stalked off in the direction of their charge. Teyla sympathized as she noted his back was ramrod stiff already.

When he didn't return after a few minutes had passed, Teyla looked up and saw John arguing with the prince. The much smaller man was pointing a finger at a table in the middle of all the rest where their hosts were seated. John had his arms folded and Teyla could practically see the steam rising off of him from where she sat.

Rising, she gathered her skirts and began weaving her way through the tables. She nodded as she saw John look her way and jerk his head in their direction.

"Colonel?" she asked as she neared them. "Your Highness?" she added with a slight bow at Prince Fahd. The man was darkly handsome with deep-set eyes and a trim, muscular build under an outfit similar to the one John wore but in tan and olive.

"Our hosts have agreed that I should sit in a place of honor," the prince said smugly. "Your colonel disagrees. I find that disrespectful. I will _not_ be disrespected."

"Disre--!" John started, then clapped his mouth shut, visibly fighting to keep his words to himself.

"I believe that Colonel Sheppard is just concerned for your safety, Your Highness," Teyla smoothed in, darting a quick, hopefully calming, glance at John. "He had chosen a table that was more easily defensible, over there," she said, gesturing back the way she'd come from. She'd kept her voice low, barely audible above the voices of the crowd and the ending toll of the bell so as not to offend or draw unwelcome attention.

Fahd failed to notice or didn't care. His voice was loud enough for heads to turn their way. "Defensible? Why that's preposterous! These people are no threat. Farmers? Tailors? _Basket weavers_??" His voice dripped with disdain.

"Your Highness, please," Teyla said, trying to keep her tone even. She held a hand out as if to touch his arm and he flinched away, fire in his eyes.

"Do not touch me!" he hissed. "Why Sheppard thought this planet would hold anything of interest to me I do not see. Undoubtedly, he thinks me a backwards camel-rider, eking out a living from my mud hut in Al Lidam. I am a Prince of the House of Saud! I have an estate with hundreds of servants in Medina, the holy resting place of Mohammed. And I am an astronaut - the Captain of my team. I know Sheppard is well aware of this- the IOC assured my father that I would be treated with the respect I am due!"

Teyla knew that this all meant something back on Earth. That the Prince's family was considered extremely wealthy, something that didn't mean much to her as wealth was a little known concept on Athos, and that he worked in space for the satellite company his father owned. She also knew that John had been wrestling for the last week to keep his hands from around their visitor's neck. She was beginning to wish that the colonel's self-control had slipped and allowed him to throttle the annoyance.

"Your Highness," she started again, keeping John in her peripheral vision. The colonel was practically vibrating with barely held control over his fury. It was apparent that if the situation were to be handled it would fall to her to try and salvage it as best as possible. "This world was considered a… a stepping stone for you. An introduction to an example of the kind of worlds we encounter here in the Pegasus Galaxy. Surely, as a well-traveled man you must be familiar with this. Your first visit away from Atlantis was chosen for its scenery, the friendliness of its people, and yes, she continued in a lower voice, their lack of technological progress. This was done to provide you a more secure place for your visit as befits a man of your importance. I assure you, Colonel Sheppard and I wish nothing more than your safety and well-being."

The prince brushed hands down the front of his vest and brought himself up to his full, diminutive height. "Very well. But I _will _eat at the head table. At the very least our host seems to be a man of _some _breeding. I will _not_ be seated next to a farmer or tradesman."

"Let us see what can be arranged, Your Highness," Teyla agreed, slowly, and she hoped subtly, expelling a relieved breath she'd been holding. She looked at John - the colonel rolled his eyes at her then gave her a small smile of thanks and agreement and left to go talk to their hosts.

A few minutes later he returned. "I talked to Tellen. He's given us three seats at the main table. Is that acceptable,… Your Highness?" he added at raised eyebrows.

Fahd nodded his assent and John flung an arm out in obvious, _after you _fashion.

The prince began to make his way towards the head table and Teyla and John fell back a few feet as they trailed behind him. "Someday you'll hafta teach me how you do that," John whispered, bending to place his mouth closer to her ear.

"Do what?"

"Control yourself when I know you wanna kill the asshole as badly as I do."

She fought a smile before she answered. "On all the worlds I have visited, all of those with which we traded on Athos… I have found that despite the extreme disparities in wealth, culture, aggression and passivity, and technology, they all have one thing in common. Every world has 'assholes'."

John coughed out a laugh and Teyla had to join him. Fahd whipped his head around and glared at them as they reached their table and the two team members quickly stifled their giggles. "Once you've spent a lifetime running from the Wraith, assholes are actually quite easy to handle," she added quietly as John pushed in her chair. She felt a small snort of warm breath on her hair and was happy to see it had done the trick. John was more at ease and settled himself in a chair next to her.

* * *

The first course was a watery broth with small bits of pungent greenery floating in it. Fahd took one sip and sneered, placing his spoon back on the table but thankfully refraining from comment.

A pretty red-haired serving girl came around with a large pitcher and began serving out small portions to each of the guests. As she approached the prince, John reached out and stopped her hand.

"What do you stop her for?" Fahd asked, his ire rising.

"It's got alcohol in it, Your Highness."

"And?"

"Well, I thought, I mean, the Qur'an --"

"Bah," the prince said as he gestured for the girl to pour him a glass. "Mohammed never had a Cognac Dudognon Henri IV. If he'd known what he'd be missing…" Waiting until she'd filled it almost to the top, the prince sipped gingerly at the beverage. He shrugged and took a healthier swig. "Not unlike a sweet Italian table wine. It will do." He leered at the server, practically salivating at the expanse of milky-pale skin exposed by her uniform. "Yes, this will definitely do."

The girl flushed and stood quickly. Fahd just barked out a harsh laugh and waved her away.

John shook his head at the serving girl's offer to fill his goblet and Teyla also demurred, sipping instead at the cool water provided.

The remainder of the dinner was a blur of clinking utensils and cringes at the prince's increasingly loud, coarse voice and the things he was saying. He turned his nose up at the first few courses, but kept demanding refills of his cup with the sweet wine. He regaled their hosts and the other guests with tales of excessive spending and adventure. With each drink the stories became more unbelievable and also started getting bawdier. Women bought and paid for and the things he did with them. To their credit, their hosts were polite about it, nodding as if interested and trying to share their own decidedly tamer stories. But Fahd was enamored of his own voice and his own over-inflated sense of self-worth.

Waving a fork with a speared piece of meat dripping in a brown gravy, Fahd began another story. "She had the most beautiful breasts I have ever seen." Then he gripped the air in front of his chest to demonstrate their size and splattered gravy on Teyla's bodice. "Sorry, m'dear," he slurred, then took his napkin and began wiping her down, taking a leering pleasure in the contact.

"That's it!" Teyla had already pushed back in her chair and drawn away from Fahd but John rose angrily from his place, knocking his chair back. "Keep your hands off of her!"

The prince, instead of getting angry for a change, raised his hands in surrender and started laughing and shaking his head. "Sorry, sorry. I just could not allow tits as gorgeous as hers to be sullied by my error." He gave Teyla a simpering grin then turned back to his hosts and smiled sloppily at them. "Colonel Sheppard is such a dour man, is he not?" He tried unsuccessfully to frown and fake a stern face, breaking into giggles. "Commanding the military of such a wonder of a city as At--"

"--Atosia is indeed a marvelous city, Your Highness," Teyla spoke firmly overtop of him.

Fahd looked at her uncertainly, then stuttered out a nod, and continued. "Yes, Atosia. The grandest city I have ever seen. Rivals even my own Medina."

Their host politely asked about the Arabian city and John and Teyla eased back into their chairs as the conversation turned back to decidedly less sensitive topics.

Fahd talked for the next half hour about the fleet of luxury cars he owned and the thousands of square miles of land he held title to. At one point a dour-faced man across from Fahd snorted and sat back, arms crossed. "I own land from the Barrens to the river. My crops yield is the highest on the planet. I know not what 'Bentleys' are but I'm certain they are not more valuable than the thousand head of _bovena_ I have."

Before Fahd could gather a retort from his drink-addled head, Tellen, their gentle giant of a host spoke up. "Brenon is a blowhard, Your Highness. Do not listen to him. Besides, with the way the storms have been ripping through of late, I doubt highly that his crop yield will be enough to pay even the tithes at temple." A broad smile, framed by a shaggy mass of dark curls from crown to chin, eased the sting of his words.

Brenon scowled and slammed down his cup, sloshing wine onto the tablecloth. He shoved his chair back and rose to his feet.

Teyla snuck a hand under the table, prepared to pull her gun free from beneath her skirts and she saw John tensing at her side.

Then Brenon pasted an icy smile on his face and ran a hand through his thinning blonde hair. He paused, rubbing the back of his neck. "Tellen is right. In fact, I smell another storm on the way. I need to go tend to my crops." He nodded shortly to his host then stiffly walked away.

Fahd laughed. "Crops. What are crops when you have oil? Tellen, have you ever seen puddles of a slick black substance in any of your fields?"

John cocked his head to the side and leaned forward. "Your Highness, that's really none of your concern…"

The prince chewed briefly on his lip, then smiled and shrugged as if to say it was worth a shot. Then he changed the subject, back to himself, of course.

As he was regaling them with descriptions of the gold toilet seats he'd recently had installed another bell rang, signaling the end of the meal.

Teyla heard John mutter, "Thank God," under his breath and he threw his wrinkled napkin on the table and rose stiffly, arching like a cat and massaging the muscles in the small of his back.

"I'm about ready to ditch this popsicle stand," he said, smiling down with his hand on the back of her chair as if to pull it out. At the raised eyebrow he chuckled. "Haven't used that one yet? How about let's make like a tree and leave?"

She couldn't have agreed more. A whole day in the ill-fitting garments and forcing a smile on her face while listening to Fahd's raunchy stories had left her exhausted and wanting nothing more than an hour of Banta sticks and a hot bath. She nodded gratefully and began to rise from her seat.

Fahd noticed them getting up and frowned. "It is impolite to finish a meal and immediately take our leave. Besides…" he continued as he turned to follow one of the prettier serving girls with his eyes as she worked to clear the table, "the evening has only just begun."

"Sorry, Your Highness," John said, clearly not sorry in the least, "but I have important work waiting for me back at the city."

Teyla winced at his choice of words, and even Fahd in his inebriated state picked up on it.

"So you do not consider this _important_, Colonel?"

John rolled his head and kneaded at the back of his neck. "Of course, I do, Your Highness. But we did the dinner and you saw the gardens and the museum. We can even stop on the way back to the gate and you can buy a souvenir."

"Colonel, I know how anxious you are to get back to your fun - oh, yes, I heard you talking earlier with that insufferable Dr. McKay - but I am not ready to leave. I will let you know when I am." And with that Fahd rose unsteadily to his feet and began making his way over to where a cluster of giggling women were talking and dashing glances his way.

"I- I'm gonna - just gimme like five minutes and I--"

Teyla smiled briefly at John's stammering but she knew this was taking its toll on him. Fahd had been an annoyance to everyone he'd met on Atlantis, but he'd been especially hard on John, taking great pleasure in ordering the colonel around. And today he'd reduced the high ranking military officer to a "glorified chauffeur" as John called it.

A gust of wind lifted the tablecloth up from the wooden table, dumping over half-empty glasses and spilling little puddles of wine. Another followed right after, whipping Teyla's hair into a halo around her head.

"I believe that we will find the festivities ending soon enough, John. It appears one of the storms they referred to will be coming through soon."

John brightened, then scowled. "We've got to leave now then. I'm not chancing getting stuck here and having to bunk down for the night with his Royal Pain in the Ass. Hang here a sec- I'll be right back. Hopefully with Fahd in tow," he added, crossing his fingers in that odd way she'd seen him do. Lorne had once explained to her that pilots tended to be a superstitious lot as a whole, but Teyla found that hard to reckon with the level-headed colonel.

She watched, rubbing gently at her now slightly rounding belly, settling her stomach after the large meal. John approached the prince and his bevy of bubbly females, tapped him on the shoulder and waited to be recognized.

Their conversation was short and intense and Teyla frowned as she saw John stalking back in her direction.

His face was red and he was breathing heavily through his nose. "He told me the only way he'd go was over his dead body. And for a moment there -"

Teyla raised a hand to stop him. "John, I am certain our hosts will be ending the celebration very soon, and then Prince Fahd will have no choice but to leave. Perhaps you could take a walk… the grounds are very beautiful and the rain has not yet started."

"A walk. A walk … yeah, a walk sounds real good. You don't mind playing babysitter, do you?"

"I will keep a watchful eye on our guest, John. Go, please."

He took a half step forward then hesitated. "You doing okay?"

"I am _fine_, thank you," she said with the slightest of blushes. "_Go."_

"Okay, okay," he said, raising his hands in surrender. "Just asking. Going - I'm going."

He strolled off towards the gardens that bordered one end of the property, turning up the collar of his shirt against the wind as he left the cover of the tent.

Teyla sighed and leaned over to pull her boots off and put her feet up on the chair next to her, settling in to her babysitting duty. She only hoped that Fahd wouldn't head off anywhere she'd have to follow.

* * *

The winds were blowing in earnest now and Teyla observed their hosts, Tellen and his wife, Mina, making their way to each of the guests that remained. Most of the locals had long since scattered back to their homes, clutching capes and collars around their necks as an icy rain began to mix with the gusts.

Teyla rose from her seat, rubbing at her arms against the chill as she scanned for John. The prince was still chatting up a small group of women and she scowled as she noticed he was allowing them to take the brunt of the wind while he stood in the shelter their gathering made.

She had just started to become concerned at John's absence when she noticed him talking to one of the serving girls. As she began to approach him she noted that it was the red-haired girl that the prince had been harassing earlier.

Assuming John was making amends for the prince's behavior, a chore she knew he was getting quite tired of, she approached closer, thinking she could offer her own apologies, when she saw John take the woman's hand. He then leaned forward and kissed her briefly on the cheek.

Teyla began to politely avert her gaze when she saw John turn abruptly on his heel and head towards where Fahd stood talking.

Thinking to join them and make arrangements to leave she too began heading that way. John looked up, met her eyes, and waved at her. She picked up her pace, finding now that she was fighting against the strengthening winds. Hard drops of rain struck her face and began to weigh her hair and the heavy fabric of her dress down.

As she drew close she saw John was already arguing with the prince. Her arrival coincided with that of Tellen. Their host, genial as ever, clapped a meaty hand each on John and Fahd's backs.

"Gentlemen, please. Be my guests tonight. The storm will be too strong for you to safely use your airboat. Mina and I insist. We have much room up at the house, more so since the boys have each taken their own wives and homes."

"Thanks, Tellen," John replied, but he was already shaking his head. "But we have to go. I can fly in this, no problem."

"This looks to be a bad one, Sheppard," their host said with a frown. "It would cause me great distress to think of you navigating in this. Even the great ships out on the river will be taking anchor in a tempest like this."

As if to punctuate the warning a bolt of lightning lit the sky followed a heartbeat later by a bone rattling thunderclap.

"I appreciate your concern, Tellen, but we really have to get back. We'll be fine. I've flown in worse."

"I do not wish to leave, Colonel," Fahd said smugly, casting a sidelong glance at an obviously inebriated beauty playing coyly with a long strand of hair. "I think our host's invitation to be quite generous."

Teyla watched as John grit his teeth and plastered on a painful-looking smile. "I told you, Your Highness, I have imp - I have business that requires my attention back home. We'll be fine."

"No, I'm staying," the prince demanded and Teyla raised eyebrows at his outburst. It brought to mind a child's tantrum at bedtime.

"We are leaving. Now." He grabbed a handful of sleeve and bodily began frog marching the prince away.

Fahd was a small man but in excellent physical condition and he wrested himself free, huffing as he smoothed down the wrinkled fabric.

"I will report you for this! Mark my words. You will not be carrying those silver oak leaves on your uniform much longer."

"Right now, I'd go back to Airman in a second if it meant not dealing with you anymore. But we are going whether you care to or not," he hissed, throwing a glance behind him every now and then.

Teyla watched with held breath as she heard John lower his voice. It was barely audible over the wind but she heard him say, "Don't make me draw my weapon on you."

Fahd paled and glanced her way. Teyla just nodded her head in tacit agreement with John, assuming he must have a good reason for his fervor to leave in the midst of this.

"Fine. We will go." Completely ignoring the host he was so happy to prevail upon just minutes ago, Fahd turned sharply and began headed to where the jumper had been parked in the beginnings of the tree line.

John thrust out a hand to their host. "Tellen, thank you for your hospitality. I'll make sure we bring extra chocolate on our next visit."

"Are you sure you will be safe, Sheppard?" the kindly man asked doubtfully. "I really do not mind if you and Teyla wish to stay and it would put my heart at ease."

John just shook his head. "Another time, Tellen. Teyla?"

"Of course, Colonel. Tellen? Thank you, and please give my regards to Mina." She looked up to allow the much larger man to bend and rest his forehead on hers, then he kissed her firmly on both cheeks.

"May the Gods be with you, my friends. If you don't mind --?" He then turned and began running back to the house, throwing a wave of farewell behind him as the rain began in earnest.

* * *

Fahd was waiting for them at the jumper, soaked through and shivering. The only warmth he showed them was a fire in his dark eyes. John ignored the man completely, striding up the still opening ramp right past the man to head for the pilot's chair.

Teyla closed the hatch up behind her and the Prince, shaking her head as Fahd headed straight for the co-pilot's chair. Without mentioning it she took a seat behind John and began running her hands through her hair, flinging away the cold rain that soaked it. Then she ran her hands down the woolen skirts doing the same. She paused and looked forward.

Fahd was sitting in the co-pilot seat, avidly watching John's hands as they worked the control panel in front of him. The HUD came up and Teyla felt the familiar thrum of the engines coming to life. The expected low bass hum of the inertial dampeners forming their protective field kicked on and she sat back in her seat, ready for what looked to be a bumpy ride back to the gate.

As expected, the lift off was turbulent and she gripped the side of the seat and placed a stabilizing hand on the bulkhead as the small craft was buffeted by winds. John eased the jumper higher and as the winds subsided a bit he allowed the HUD to dematerialize so he could concentrate on the rain spattered windscreen.

Their slow and steady rise was interrupted without warning when the jumper slewed sideways and the HUD came back up. John whirled in his chair and glared at Fahd, then his brow wrinkled briefly. The HUD came back down and the craft straightened out and resumed its previous ascent.

"Don't you ever, EVER, do that. What the hell were you thinking?" John practically spat at the prince.

"You were heading for a bank of storm clouds, Colonel Sheppard," Fahd sneered back. "Or did you fail to notice? And you failed to address me as Your Highness as befits my royal standing."

"In case _you_ 'failed to notice', Fahd, this isn't Saudi Arabia. And on this craft, I am supreme commander, the big cheese, and grand poobah and the ONLY one who gives a say so on flying the damn thing! So just SIT there, on your hands if necessary, or so help me, I'll --"

The inside of the jumper- every display, every readout, and every steady and blinking light suddenly went dark. The thrum of the engines and the bass hum of the inertial dampeners went dead silent.

Then the jumper fell from the sky.


	2. Chapter 2 of 22

Major Lorne entered the gate room, nodding at some of the techs that passed by. He checked his wristwatch and noted that he was two minutes late for the hastily called meeting with Colonel Carter so he double-timed it up the stairs, wondering what the current crisis might be. As far as he knew, all the off-world teams had returned on time and he knew Colonel Sheppard was off entertaining the base's newest guest. For once, it was nice to be second in command of the military since it meant he didn't have to participate in the dog and pony show.

"Oh, good. You're finally here, Major. Now we can get this over with."

"A pleasure, as always, Dr. McKay," he answered with barely suppressed sarcasm. "Colonel, sorry for the delay but I was in the rec room on Level 19."

Colonel Carter rolled her eyes at Rodney McKay's 'greeting' but managed a smile. "I'm sorry I took you away from your card game, Major."

"There's no such thing as off duty on Atlantis, Colonel," Lorne said, smiling.

"Yes, yes, all very unfortunate; not that you ever invite any real players," McKay said with a put upon sigh.

"We don't play with sharks or card counters," Lorne replied.

McKay crossed his arms. "Yet, you deal Sheppard in."

Lorne quirked an eyebrow. "He's the boss and we mark the decks to even out the odds."

Carter coughed, bringing things back to order. "Speaking of Colonel Sheppard, he, Teyla, and Prince Fahd are over an hour late for their scheduled arrival."

"When was their last check in?" Lorne asked, back to business.

"Four hours ago."

Lorne narrowed his eyes. "Any word of trouble?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary," Carter answered.

"Colonel, they're only an hour overdue. For all we know, dinner ran longer than expected," he said.

"I know, but considering the VIP that Colonel Sheppard is escorting, I want to err on the side of caution," Carter explained.

McKay rolled his eyes. "Oh, please, I really hope Sheppard leaves that egotistical jerk on the planet. Maybe the natives can sacrifice him to their gods... no, wait- that'd be bad. His Highness would probably bring them bad crops for years."

Lorne briefly considered reminding the physicist of the pot calling the kettle black but, then again, the prince had won the prize for arrogance and McKay was probably upset he'd been dethroned, so to speak.

Carter took a deep breath; this was a topic she'd had to defend many times already. "We all know that Prince Fahd can be... _difficult._"

McKay snorted. "Please, the guy knows how to tinker with low orbit satellites. Well, gee, maybe he could win a fifth grade science fair with his knowledge. Doesn't give him the right to waltz into my lab and demand to be shown my latest work."

"Rodney," Carter sighed.

"No, you rolled out the red carpet for the sheik."

"Prince."

McKay glared at the colonel. "Whatever. The guy got a ceremonial title from NASA and I'm sure his physics degree was found in a Cracker Jack box."

"I know the past six days have been trying, but General Landry and Richard Woolsey have stated over and over again, the importance of our guest's visit."

"And that was again?" Lorne inquired. He then amended quickly, "Sorry, I was on a week long mission and missed the meeting before the prince arrived."

"More IOA red tape bulls--"

"Enough, Rodney," Carter interrupted, turning to address Lorne. "Every year, all the members of the IOA gather to go over budget concerns, review mission directives and evaluate the overall resources devoted to the program. All the major world powers have delegates, including Prince Fahd's father who represents Saudi Arabia, a country, I might add, that donated a large sum of money to our weapons program."

Lorne was beginning to connect the bureaucratic dots. Even in another galaxy, it was impossible to get away from the taint of Earth political rhetoric. "So, now we're a tourist destination?"

"No. The IOA figured this was a way to allow some of its own members to see firsthand the work we've been doing."

"What, that gnat, Woolsey, doesn't poke his head around here enough?" McKay grouched.

"They want 'one of their own', someone who isn't groomed to paint rosy pictures of everything. Atlantis has been such a vital part of the program. It's gained more than a little mystique and a bit of concern as well." Carter cleared her throat. "Fahd's father has been the most vocal about this latter issue and is too ill to travel. Some think it's mainly his son who just wanted to go into space beyond what NASA could offer."

"Nice to know security clearance includes the family members of the IOA," Lorne chimed in.

"After a thirty million dollar donation, I think that was a given." Carter smiled at their shocked expressions. "Atlantis needs some good press after the past two years. I figured this would grant us a favor later on."

"We always need those," Lorne muttered.

"Well, it has been fun and games, seeing Sheppard reduced to an errand boy, but we have more important things to deal with. So, chop, chop. Let's go drag him back so I can put him to some real use."

Lorne glared at McKay. "You might want to let the colonel run with Ronon a little bit after being stuck with that guy. He's been taking out his frustrations on the target range and exercising with some of the Marines a little harder than normal."

"I owe him a steak dinner and recordings of all the college bowl games," Carter smirked.

"Are we done?" McKay fidgeted.

"You're in an awful hurry to go on this mission. Thought you preferred avoiding primitive worlds?" Lorne asked.

"Hello, Sheppard was supposed to test pilot the hyper-drive modifications to the jumper." The scientist shook his head. "Doesn't the colonel brief you on the important things?"

"This would be the jumper that you used to go to the Replicator home world?" Lorne bit his bottom lip, wishing he had used another example when he saw the physicist grimace.

"Yes. It worked, but only for a single jump, then we ran out of power. I've been working on changes that might allow us to use them for multiple jumps, which I remind you, would be a very good thing."

"Yeah, I recall it now. The colonel's been pretty hyped about taking it for a spin."

"Of course! He was supposed to begin today but _someone_," McKay looked over at Carter, "made him go on another babysitting assignment."

"I hated getting between a pilot and his toys, but this was one of the last requirements of the prince's trip... and speaking of?" she urged.

"Heading out now, Colonel." Lorne said, gesturing at McKay.

"I'll inform Doctor Keller to join you in the bay," Carter stated.

"Is that necessary?"

Carter turned to McKay. "I'm not taking any chances with the importance of our guest's safety. I know everyone here finds it a huge inconvenience, but we are responsible for him. I want a doctor present, just in case you come upon trouble."

"Understood, Colonel," Lorne said before glaring at his other team member.

"Whatever. The sooner we get there, the sooner some real work can be done."

Lorne followed McKay out, resisting the urge to sigh loudly.

* * *

Jennifer Keller hauled her med kit in one hand and had slung a heavy, oversized bag onto her other shoulder. The uneven weight made her unbalanced and she wobbled a little as she walked towards the jumper. She tried to calm the butterflies in her stomach, but memories of her last off-world trip had them flapping like crazy. She hefted her supplies up the ramp, managing only three steps before Ronon Dex grabbed the large knapsack off her shoulder and stored it away.

"Thanks," she said, huffing for breath.

"Sure. Where you want this thing?" Ronon asked, indicating another piece of equipment balanced on his shoulder.

"Um... over there," she answered as she pointed to the back of the jumper. "Thank you."

Ronon didn't reply, too busy stowing away more of her things. Major Lorne entered the jumper and brushed past them to take a seat in the pilot's chair. Jennifer followed behind, weaving to avoid Dr. McKay where he stood in the middle of the jumper's floor, fiddling with his PDA.

Her motion distracted him and he looked up and around at everyone. "Are we all aboard now?"

Jennifer sat down in one of the back seats, giving her a front row view of Ronon and Rodney facing off over the co-pilot's chair. The two men stared balefully at each other and Ronon's hand reached over to grip the headrest. His fingers made a squeak as they sank into the cushion.

Rodney finally blinked, quailed actually, and shook his head, muttering about pushy Satedans as he took the seat next to her. Ronon smiled wolfishly as he eased his lanky form into the co-pilot's seat.

She tried offering a kindly smile to Rodney but the physicist just pulled out his PDA and started pecking at it. "Didn't want to be up front anyways," he muttered.

"The rich guy isn't going to ride back with us... is he?" Ronon asked.

"Lord, I hope not," Rodney said, looking up from his data pad. "All we need is for him to demand to fly the jumper back."

Lorne looked over. "We're just going down to the planet to retrieve our people. Colonel Sheppard will probably be mighty pleased that we're rescuing him from spending more time with Fahd."

"Good. Maybe the guy can hassle Sheppard about flying _his_ jumper then," Rodney said as he returned to his tapping.

"Maybe when Hell freezes over," Lorne muttered under his breath.

"Are you kidding?" Ronon whirled around in his seat. "He can fly our stuff?"

Jennifer shrank into her chair. "I was told to give him the gene therapy... didn't count on it taking, though."

"Oh, it took alright. He enjoyed watching things glow and kept snapping his fingers at me so I would hand him more trinkets."

It eased her mind a little; listening to the others complain about the prince distracted her as they entered the gate and re-emerged above a massive range of green covered mountains. The small craft didn't register things like normal planes because of the inertial dampeners so she wasn't expecting it when she was almost thrown from her seat as the jumper slung sideways.

"Whoa, we've got some chop," Lorne warned.

"Oh, define 'chop', Major!"

Jennifer dug her fingers into the chair arms, glancing at the anxious scientist and over at Ronon whose eyes were glued to the front windshield.

"Looks like a pretty bad storm. Hold on while I try to get around it." Lorne stayed calm as he adjusted one of the sticks. "I think this is the tail end of a larger system."

A swirl of red appeared on the internal display, spinning across the screen. Jennifer felt her stomach drop as the jumper rattled in the turbulence.

"You think Sheppard got caught in this?" Ronon asked, glaring at the black clouds surrounding them.

"Scanning now," McKay replied.

The tiny craft was battered around by gusting winds; lightning streaks flashed in blue and yellow bolts against the grey storm clouds. Jennifer squealed in surprise when the jumper dipped suddenly, much like a free fall on a giant roller coaster.

"Sorry, guys. Think we're past the worst," Lorne called out over his shoulder.

"Some warning next time!" Rodney barked.

Ronon pointed at a blinking dot. "Look, that's the jumper's signal."

"They're over the foothills of the mountains," Lorne said, straining to see. "Right near the Barrens."

"Barrens?" Jennifer asked.

"Rocky, grassy area. Good for hiking, where the mists roll off the mountains," Ronon explained.

"Colonel Sheppard, this is Major Lorne. Do you read?"

The three of them waited tensely as they approached the area the signal arose from. Silence hung in the air after repeated unanswered calls, making her antsy. With rekindled nervousness she mentally went over the inventory of medical supplies in her head, prepping for the worst.

Rodney was out of his seat, gripping both chairs up front as he peered out the windscreen. "Oh, no."

"Damn," Lorne cursed.

Ronon's back and shoulders locked up and his jaw clenched so hard it hurt her own mouth to see it.

Lorne hovered long enough to scope out a close landing spot near the wreckage that finally came into her view.

The front end of the jumper appeared crumpled, the front section crunched inward. Part of the right side was entrenched into the packed earth, caught in one of the hillsides. Jennifer bolted up as soon as they touched the ground, her fingers grabbing both bags.

"Let's go," she said firmly.

Rodney was right behind her, looking a bit shaky and even a little pale. Ronon marched past him, opened the hatch and the three of them hustled outside, a light rain pelting them as they got near the crash site.

Lorne tried activating the back doors but they were unresponsive to his touch. Ronon was at his side, slipping his fingers into the crevice and prying at it with all his might but to no avail. The metal didn't budge.

Rodney made a circle around the damaged craft, coming up quickly at his teammate's side. "If there's no power, human force – even yours- won't open it," he snapped. "We need a crowbar."

"On it," the major announced, jogging back to their own jumper.

Ronon began banging on the outside. "Sheppard! ...Teyla!"

Rodney paced back and forth outside, the rain slicking down his hair. He swiped angrily at it, pushing it back from his forehead. Ronon kept tugging on the hatch, only finally stepping back with a growl as Lorne returned with the needed tool.

The major was still breathing heavily from his adrenaline fueled dash for the crowbar. His first attempt, the tool slipped from the crevice on the rain-slicked metal. Ronon yanked it from him and began forcing the doors apart with a grunt.

Just as Jennifer was beginning to fear it wouldn't work, the back hatch was physically disabled and slid open with a hydraulic hiss.

"Let me through!" she yelled, even as she was bullying her way past the trio of testosterone and into the dark interior of the jumper.

Lorne and Rodney lit the way with their flashlights, only a few steps behind her as she clambered her way in using what Colonel Sheppard had once called the "oh, shit" handles attached to the roof. The jumper was angled in a downward slope, making balance tricky as she maneuvered through the craft and tried not to fall forward. There were boxes and supply containers strewn all over the place, most undoubtedly knocked loose by the impact.

The first thing that hit her was the heavy copper smell that permeated the enclosed space and she swallowed heavily against the odor. "Oh, Teyla," she breathed upon seeing the woman sprawled on the floor in front of her chair. "I need light!" she commanded, pulling out her stethoscope.

She bent down, fingers verifying a strong steady beat while her eyes did a cursory examination. There were no signs of obvious external injury or blood loss. Ronon crouched next to her, holding his light aloft.

"Pulse is good," she said out loud. Then she pressed the bell of the instrument to the unconscious woman's chest. Teyla stirred awake as Jennifer reached up under her skirt. "It's okay, Teyla. It's Jennifer – Dr. Keller. You've been in an accident and I'm just checking on the baby... lay still." Teyla nodded quietly, then gave a sad smile as Ronon's hand slipped into hers.

A few seconds later Jennifer was rewarded with the hummingbird flutter of a tiny heart. "I've got a heartbeat. It's strong... he sounds just fine, Teyla." The mom-to-be let out a relieved sob and buried her face in Ronon's side.

Jennifer's own relief and happiness was short-lived though. She watched as Lorne moved around her towards the other two occupants. He turned to meet her gaze. "Damn."

Her eye caught the reflection of Ronon's light in a glistening blood pool that had formed around the co-pilot's seat. Her eyes flicked left and she took in Colonel Sheppard's motionless form slumped over the controls.

Rodney inched closer into the increasingly closer quarters of the cockpit and reached out towards the injured pilot's neck.

"Don't move him!" she ordered, making Rodney flinch.

"He... he, um... has a pulse," he relayed uneasily as he switched to Sheppard's wrist. "It's very fast," he added, swallowing roughly.

"Okay... just don't touch him until I get over there."

She squeezed Teyla's shoulder as she felt the woman trying to move. "Just relax, try not to move."

"I am... fine... Help the others," Teyla said woozily.

Jennifer looked over at Ronon. "I need to check on the others; her breathing looks good and she's conscious, but try to keep her still and quiet, alright?"

"I'll stay by her," the Satedan replied, looking over at the flight controls.

She nodded, hurrying over towards Prince Fahd, knowing by the sheer amount of crimson that soaked his clothes and dripped on the floor what she would find. The human body only contained so much blood and it looked like half the man's volume had pumped out of him.

The console in front of Fahd had been sheared apart like tinfoil and pieces of the instrument panel had been forced upwards. Lorne shook his head at her.

The gaping wound in the prince's neck left little doubt. The fingers she pressed over his carotid slipped in the still warm blood that continued to trickle out. Then she reached up and closed eyes frozen open in shock.

There was no time to dwell on the dead. She crossed over to Colonel Sheppard's seat, moving fallen supplies and debris out of the way to reach him. The colonel was slumped over the flight controls with one of the yokes pressed up against his stomach. She reached for his pulse and felt the thready, weak flutter.

"Major Lorne, I need my backboard and a neck brace."

"Yes, ma'am."

She checked his airway, noting his shallow breathing. Then she quickly snagged a BP cuff out of her bag while visually checking back on Teyla. The injured woman's eyes were still open if a bit glazed over and she held her left arm awkwardly. When she tried again to sit up Ronon thankfully laid his hand on her shoulder to keep her from moving. Jennifer offered Teyla a brief smile of reassurance before pumping up the cuff on Sheppard's arm.

"How is he?" Rodney asked impatiently.

Sheppard was tachycardic; his pulse was around 140 and the 80/60 reading meant his BP was dropping to dangerous levels. "When the Major gets back it's important that we transport Colonel Sheppard to the other jumper as quickly as possible."

Rodney for once was silent, obviously feeling a bit helpless at the moment, but she had a task for him. "Bring me that large knapsack I left outside." She saw Rodney's eyes go large but he was off like a shot.

She knelt back down next to Teyla and pulled out a penlight to check pupil reactions while she waited for the backboard.

"Any dizziness?"

"A little, but I'm feeling better. I think my arm is broken," Teyla replied. "How is everyone else?"

"We are taking care of them. I don't want you to worry," Jennifer answered, feeling a little better at Teyla's responses. "Any belly pain?"

"None," Teyla replied, shaking her head slowly.

Jennifer knew that any type of crash could involve many types of blunt force trauma. What determined the seriousness of possible injury were the velocity of the moving vehicle and the force of impact. Jumpers flew at speeds so much faster than cars and there was no telling if any of the dampeners had been working. She was worried about unseen injury in her patient and that of her child, biting her lip at what that meant for the colonel who had been thrown at who knew what speed into the dash and flight controls.

This was a nightmare. She had been brought along as an afterthought; normally, this type of mission, a medical person wasn't even part of the roster. Now she was faced with a mass casualty situation with multiple victims and was forced to choose a "priority" patient based on a quick assessment. With one backboard and cervical collar, they could only safely transport one victim. The only reassuring thing she could count on was Teyla's strong vital signs and those of her unborn child.

Rodney returned, hauling the large leather satchel. "What do you have in this thing? Rocks?"

Lorne was back as well, dragging the equipment with him. Jennifer dug into the second bag, thankful she had come prepared as she pulled out an IV kit. They needed to get some fluids into Sheppard ASAP to bolster his pressure and she quickly inserted the needle into a vein in the back of his hand.

"I need someone to hold up the saline."

McKay grabbed the bag, holding it high and out of the way while she quickly attached the cervical collar and slid the backboard behind Sheppard's body. She slipped the head harness beneath the colonel's skull, aligned it the best she could, and began securing the straps.

"Would someone--"

Lorne was by her side before she completed her sentence. "I know what to do," he said, getting on the other side of the seat.

They carefully lifted Sheppard out of the chair enough to lay him down on the floor and finish strapping him in. Ronon seemed terribly torn, but there was no room and no time. "I only have one backboard and I want to make sure Teyla's transported properly."

She looked at the Athosian, who was attentive and responsive, her eyes on Colonel Sheppard's plight. "Ronon's going to stay. You're stable and we need to get the colonel--"

"Go. I am fine," Teyla encouraged.

Lorne took one side of the backboard and, surprisingly, Rodney took the other without asking, tucking the bag of saline into his jacket. "We need to hurry," Jennifer commanded.

* * *

They were airborne before she knew it, intent as she was on her patient; so focused, in fact, that Rodney's voice made her jump.

"Doesn't he already have an IV?"

She didn't look up as she inserted an additional bore needle into Sheppard's arm, hoping the extra fluids would counteract his falling crit levels. "Yes, _Doctor_ McKay," she said with a trace of annoyance.

"I may not have an M.D. after my name, but I know something about medicine, despite it being a distant cousin to real science."

She locked eyes with the frantic man, trying to remind herself how many friends their close-knit community had lost recently. "He has internal injuries. I'm not sure what type. His blood pressure isn't good and I'm doing what I can to stabilize his vitals, so, please... Let me."

She pried open the injured man's lids, shining a light in one pupil then the other.

"Uargghhhh."

Her heart stuttered and Rodney practically glued himself to her side. "Colonel Sheppard?"

The man blinked sluggishly, trying to move his head and muttering under his breath.

"Colonel Sheppard, can you hear me?"

She wasn't expecting much; she had already noted that the right pupil didn't respond as quickly as the left one. "Colonel Sheppard?"

"How's... … how's...Teyla?"

"She's going to be fine," she assured him.

That was it. Sheppard was out for the count again, his lids fluttering closed as his body relaxed into unconsciousness.

"Sheppard!" Rodney shouted.

"I need a radio," she said firmly, trying to get the shell-shocked physicist's attention. "Rodney."

"Um... okay... hold on."

"Gotcha a connection, doc," she heard from the pilot's seat. She hadn't even noticed that Lorne was in communication with Atlantis. "I repeat, we have two casualties and one fatality. Request an additional jumper with a medic to retrieve the second injured and body recovery."

Carter's voice came through. _"Who was the fatality?"_

Jennifer placed an oxygen mask over Sheppard's nose and mouth, listening with half an ear and picking up on the fear in the colonel's voice.

"The diplomat didn't make it."

"_Understood, Major. I'm sending a second jumper now."_

Jennifer picked up on the subtle relief in Carter's voice, but it was still tense with regret over the loss of life. She had already cut open Sheppard's tunic, baring his chest and palpating his torso for injury. The ancient scanners afforded her an advantage over any modern hospital, but while there was time, doing things the old-fashioned way eased her mind.

McKay waited with a com in hand until she was done with the brief examination; the fresh bruising over Sheppard's ribcage and belly were a bright red warning sign as was the way he moaned and writhed under the pressure of her fingers.

"We're almost there!" Lorne shouted.

She clicked on her radio to address her team in the infirmary. "I need an OR prepped and ready to go when I arrive. Make sure Dr. Melvin scrubs in and have six units of Colonel Sheppard's blood type on standby."

"_Yes, Doctor."_

"Be sure the scanner is up and running; we need to get him under it as soon as we wheel in."

"_Right away," _one of her staff answered.

"I can't do this again," Rodney said, slumping down to sit on the floor.

She doubted he even realized he'd expressed it out loud. However, any thoughts about offering him words of support were swept away as Sheppard's vitals continued to fail. "Come on, Colonel," she murmured. "Hang in there. We're almost home."


	3. Chapter 3 of 22

Sorry - quick authors' note. I had dispensed with the normal headers, but this may be of interest to those of you coming along for the ride. Just to put some posting fears to rest! This is chapter 3 of 22.

This is _not_ a WIP. We'll be updating every Monday, Wednesday and Friday to give us time to polish things as we go along. All feedback greatly appreciated as this was a long, monster story in the making. Sorry for the interruption... back to the story:

* * *

Ronon rested his palm on the butt of his blaster, wishing for a reason to use it. He'd followed McKay and Lorne down to the crash site in an attempt to distract his thoughts. There was nothing he could do in the infirmary- Sheppard was still in surgery and Teyla was sleeping while drugs flowed within her veins and prowling around restlessly had only aggravated the medical staff along with his nerves.

It wasn't quite dawn yet on the planet and the sky was only just pinking at the horizon. He stood surveying the hills that led up to the mountain range; the area would be good for training exercises with its mix of low and high terrains and the bordering forest for war games. The hills would be physically challenging enough without requiring repelling gear. His eyes drifted over to the jumper; the front end was smashed into an outcropping of rock and part of the right side was hidden by the trench it had dug into the earth.

"Why are we here before the clean-up crew? Do you have any idea the number of blood-borne diseases? We know nothing about Prince Fahd other than that he was a pain in the ass," McKay complained angrily.

Lorne gave him a sour look as he stopped in front of the downed craft.

"What? I can't speak ill of the dead even if it _is _the truth?"

"Just go in there and get your stuff," Ronon snapped.

"Oh, yes, I'll just ignore the instrument panels covered with fluids that are supposed to remain _inside_ the body."

"You're wearing gloves, Dr. McKay," Lorne pointed out.

"How about less talking and more getting the hell on with it," Ronon said, taking two steps closer to glare.

"Fine... Sorry if I'm in a pissy mood because someone I know might be dying on a metal table!"

Did Rodney think he was the only one allowed to be upset? Ronon thought angrily. "Then why did you come along?"

The irate scientist's cheeks grew red and he actually stood nose to nose with him. "Because I'm the foremost expert on everything and wasn't about to let Sam send some know-nothing military idiot – no offense, Lorne—"

"None taken."

"-- here for the inspection!"

"There's nothing to inspect; the jumper just crashed!" Ronon hollered back.

"Jumpers don't fall out of the sky without reason! You only have mechanical failure or--"

"Or what!"

Rodney couldn't look at him, the color draining from his face. "Nothing."

"McKay," Ronon growled.

His teammate shook his head. "I'll find out why. I'm sure something… happened," McKay stuttered, glancing at his watch. "Has it really been an hour?" He tapped his com. "This is McKay. Do you have an update on Sheppard? ... I know that, Radek. Just ask the damn nurse! She has nothing better to do!" he yelled into the radio.

This was the third time McKay had badgered someone about Sheppard. The man couldn't be at two places at once and his constant switch from franticly worried to being pissed at 'wasting his time' made Ronon's blood boil; it was difficult to handle McKay's outpouring of frenetic emotion while he tried to stay focused.

Lorne walked over to him as the scientist began pacing. "I'll begin inspecting the outer hull for physical damage."

"McKay was talking about it being Sheppard's fault."

The major exhaled loudly. "Other than structural or system failures, the other main cause of aviation crashes _is_ pilot error."

Ronon stood up straighter, rolling his head on his shoulders as he felt anger and tension knot at the back of his neck. It rankled, even hearing that they were already considering that and he opened his mouth to say so.

Lorne seemed to read him loud and clear and held up a hand to stop him. "Colonel Sheppard is one of the best damn pilots I know. He can fly anything and through the impossible. I'm sure we'll discover a reason."

"Then let's find it and tell Carter," Ronon challenged. He looked over at the still pacing scientist. "Before I shoot McKay."

Not showing he'd heard his name being used, McKay changed direction in his pacing and approached them. "Useless. Why is everyone so useless?"

"What is it?" Ronon hissed.

"Nothing. That's the point; no one knows a thing. Sheppard's still in the OR."

"Let's concentrate on the task at hand, Dr. McKay," Lorne instructed. "Our report needs to be top notch, no distractions."

"An engineering team is coming later to take the jumper back to Atlantis; maybe they can handle biohazard duty instead of me," Rodney complained while digging out two plastic bags, a pair of scissors and a roll of duct tape.

"Colonel Carter wants a preliminary report ASAP."

Ronon narrowed his eyes at Lorne. "What's the rush?"

"There was a fatality." Lorne rubbed at the back of his neck uncomfortably. "A member of the IOA's family was killed. We have to do this by the book."

Ronon didn't really care, but if this made him feel productive then he'd help. He watched McKay place his left boot into the first plastic bag and wrap the silver tape around his ankle to keep it there, repeating the same process with his right, before standing up. "Okay," McKay said, taking a deep breath. "I'm going in."

Lorne and Ronon stared with nothing said but volumes conveyed in incredulously raised eyebrows.

McKay stood to full height under their gaze. "What? I'm not ruining another pair of boots," he said before trudging inside.

"Doesn't he know that all the data terminals are on the pilot's side?" Lorne asked Ronon.

He shrugged in response then headed off to begin searching for scorch marks, starting with the back hatch. Lorne pulled out a flashlight and began illuminating sections towards the ground where the early morning sunlight didn't reach.

Each man methodically inspected the outside of the ship for any trace of weapons fire but found no burn marks or any similar damage.

Ronon made his way towards the right engine pod, seeking any sign that it had taken a hit, but came up empty. "This is stupid. Maybe it was another type of weapon."

"If there was a weapon," Lorne countered. "These people are turn of the century in their technology. They're a little ahead of the normal development curve we've seen in Pegasus but they don't have any military to my knowledge."

"Our jumpers have been knocked down by primitive explosive devices before. My first mission with Sheppard, a bunch of prisoners with pipe rockets got a lucky hit."

"Okay, but that would definitely leave a mark and all I'm seeing is destruction from the crash itself."

Lorne had a point, but Ronon was growing frustrated. "Maybe it hit the front of the jumper or the right side; both are inaccessible."

"Could be... when the jumper's retrieved we'll have a team go over it in the hangar bay."

"Maybe..." Ronon tried to come up with something else. "Maybe something struck it?"

"What a bird?" Lorne shook his head. "The colonel wouldn't let an animal hit the jumper, plus he was flying in the middle of a gigantic storm."

This whole investigation of mechanical things wasn't Ronon's thing but he wasn't going to give up that easily. "Maybe winds or lightning?"

The major got a weird expression. "Hmm... I hope not," Lorne muttered under his breath as he walked towards the back again.

Ronon wasn't sure why that was such a bad thing, but then he thought back to the conversation of earlier and clenched his jaw. No, McKay would find some computer malfunction or something and that would be the end of it. He wasn't much for all these procedures; they were annoying and what was the point? Bad things happened; it was life here. People died. It was the risk they all took.

If the planet's natives had had anything to do with this, he'd make them pay. That was why he was here; not to help file some report or that he gave a shit about some rich Earth person. If this wasn't an accident then someone had tried to kill his friends. Teyla's arm was broken; she would be unable to perform her normal duties and worse, her baby had been placed in danger, the unborn infant one of the last links to her people and the newest part of his circle.

He looked up at the sky and noticed how far the sun had risen with still no word on Sheppard. He traced his own scars on his chest, across his stomach. Remembered the pain of each one.

A loud, high-pitched whine distracted him from his memories and he drew a long steady breath before stomping over to glare at the maker of the sound. "You done?"

McKay rolled his eyes, his laptop clutched between his hands. "No! In fact, I've got nothing!"

Lorne joined them but cautiously kept his distance as McKay erupted in one of his tirades. "The jumper's electrical system is fried," he fumed.

"What do you mean?" Ronon asked, not in the mood for any drama.

"As in there's no power at all. Not a single drop. I've spent the entire time trying to get it up and running for me to do my download, but nothing."

"Could the fuel conduits have been affected by the crash?"

McKay glowered at Lorne. "That doesn't have anything to do with the electrical output of the ship. There's no juice, nothing in any systems. I think it was overloaded. "

"How?" Ronon asked.

"I have no idea! Any number of things from the storm to a short circuit caused during the crash. Right now I have to get a portable power unit so I can download the data and maybe find out if there were any system malfunctions."

McKay stormed off, yammering away to himself; the guy didn't even require an audience. The sun was ushering the morning in, time was wasting and suddenly, Ronon didn't want to be there any more.

The only good thing that came from a ticked off McKay was the fact that it lit a fire under his ass. He was already on his way back before Ronon could yell for him to hurry up. He didn't even bait McKay as he hauled a tiny generator awkwardly on his way back. Desiring something to occupy his time, Ronon grabbed the power source out of the other man's hands without a word and followed him inside the darkened jumper. He allowed McKay to order him around, but only because it would get the job done faster.

The inside of the ship reeked of death and he breathed through his mouth, avoiding the sludgy pool of partially congealed blood. A cleaning crew would eventually wipe down the instruments, tear out and replace the seats and, if the ship was recoverable, it'd be used again. There was no wasting precious jumpers.

"Don't touch anything," McKay said, almost batting his hand away but apparently thinking better of it.

Ronon studied the inside while his teammate fiddled with his computer and tapped at the keys. "Aha! There we go. Now we're getting somewhere."

McKay's eyes burned brightly as he stared enrapt at his computer screen. Ronon rested his hands on the top of the pilot's chair and stared out the windshield, scowling at the view of crushed rock. Maybe he zoned out or maybe McKay had stopped blabbering because, before he knew it, the download was done.

"I've got everything from the interface. There's nothing left for me to do but analyze it in my lab."

"You're doing that, too?" Ronon couldn't resist asking.

"I don't want anyone screwing this up."

Ronon snagged the portable power source and hauled it out, grabbing one of the handles as he climbed back up the slope. McKay exclaimed about the time and began his ascent back into freak-out mode, tapping his radio once again. Ronon felt badly for whoever was being pestered while the man was like this but he secretly hoped for some news as well.

"Zelenka, you were supposed to contact me when you heard something... are you kidding me? He's still in surgery? What is he, the six million dollar man?"

Ronon didn't get the Earthism but judging from the speed at which McKay was talking it meant things were not going well back at Atlantis.

Lorne met up with them outside. "We're done," he informed the major.

"Yeah. Maybe our engineers will have better luck. All we have now is nothing."

Ronon gripped the generator tighter as McKay continued shoving equipment and his computer back in their bags with aggravated sighs.

"Any word?" Lorne asked, not knowing the mistake he was making.

"No, Major, there isn't or do you think I'd just keep that type of information to myself?" McKay seethed.

"No need to bite my head off. You're the one with a pipeline into the infirmary," Lorne retorted.

"Yeah... I'm... well, you know. I don't do well with the whole waiting thing and really... the entire city's ventilation system has been fixed in less time than they've been digging around Sheppard's insides."

Ronon was glad that the conversation ended after that as he opened their jumper hatch, wondering if the trip had even accomplished anything.

* * *

Sam heard Rodney before she saw him. It wasn't that unusual an occurrence, but it was jarring, considering how quiet the command center had been. Word had spread like wildfire about the jumper crash and the loss of the dignitary. While there were a couple crass remarks about the loss of a man who had made himself an all-around pain in the ass for most everyone he dealt with, the mood was still suitably somber. Fahd was a young man with family who probably cared about him, and he was also a guest of Atlantis. There was an understood feeling of responsibility for anyone in their care and his death was just another hash mark of loss they'd all experienced too much of lately.

And of course, knowing that Colonel Sheppard's fate was still unresolved weighed heavy on everyone. Sam was well aware of how popular he was among geeks and goons alike, and she feared if they lost him… the very fabric of Atlantis would unravel.

So instead of rolling her eyes and getting her back up, Sam stood calmly, leaning next to Chuck's console, waiting for Rodney and the rest to come in and make their report.

Lorne was first. His normally bright countenance was gone, replaced by a hangdog look that aged his youthful face. He nodded respectfully as he stopped and waited for the others to file in behind him.

Ronon came in next. His eyes smoldered with barely controlled anger and he practically hummed with pent up tension.

The reason for it came stalking in last, his laptop carried under one arm while the hand of the other was pressing into his earpiece. He let his hand fall gracelessly at his side as he muttered under his breath and then finally gave Sam his attention.

Taking in a calming breath, she smiled at Lorne, the most receptive face at the moment. "Report?"

"Wish I had more for you, Colonel. The jumper is in rough shape. The front is pretty much in the rear. We'll have to wait til we get it pulled up out of the ground to see if it's salvageable."

Looking sidelong at Mt Rodney about to explode she continued. "Any sign of what happened?"

"It crashed. It fell out of the sky at a rate of approximately 9.81 meters per second and struck the ground. It doesn't take a genius - or, actually, maybe it does since you had me wasting my time there…"

"Rodney -"

"We. Found. Nothing."

"I'm afraid he's right, Colonel," Lorne said with a sigh. "No exterior damage visible."

"I understand that the jumpers carry their version of a 'black box.' What were you able to retrieve from the data banks?"

"I uploaded the computer core onto my laptop," Rodney conceded, tapping the machine in his hands. "I'll take it back to my lab and waste some more of my precious time on it. Now, can someone please tell me what the hell is going on with Teyla and Sheppard?"

"Teyla's resting comfortably. Dr. Keller tells me the baby is fine --"

"Ah, Dr. Keller. What the hell Carson was thinking, I have no idea. I mean, she's cute and all, but --"

"Rodney - Dr. Keller is CMO. She's a competent, highly trained physician, and I have the utmost confidence --"

"What? Seen much of her work have you, Sam?"

"She saved Dr. Weir," Ronon spoke up from where he'd been leaning, arms crossed, against the wall.

"No, I did."

Sam saw Rodney pale and swallow several times after his retort, his eyes darting around the room before coming back to her.

"She --"

"--The Kierson Fever? Yeah, that was me, too. And -- you, and Teyla and Sheppard, technically. Honestly, Carson must've been sampling some of his pharmaceuticals when he chose Doogie Howserette. What is she, like 16? Doesn't she have a slumber party to go to?"

Ronon pushed up from the wall and started walking over, fire in his eyes.

"She's a good doctor, McKay."

"Oh, please. Stop with the besotted barbarian routine. It's really not a good look for you, that doofy smile you get on your face when she walks in the room."

"Rodney!"

"I swear, he's like an overgrown Pepe le Pew, little hearts and cupids circling him," Rodney continued as he twirled a finger around his head.

"RODNEY!"

"What, Sam? It's true! He's not exactly an impartial judge of Keller's dubious skills. And let's all face the facts, shall we? Hm? Sheppard's life is depending on the Homecoming Queen --"

"I was never Homecoming Queen, Dr. McKay."

Sam turned with dismay to see that Keller had entered the room. She wore aqua blue scrubs, a surgical mask pulled down around her neck. Rusty red blood stained a corner of the top.

Rodney at least had the decency to blush and look away as he muttered, "Pity."

"Dr. Keller," Sam said with an embarrassed smile. "What - how -"

"He's stable. For now."

"Stable - that's good, right?" Ronon asked.

"Better than he was, yeah. They're settling him into the recovery area. I just thought I'd come out and let you all know his progress." Keller looked down and seemed to notice the blood for the first time. She crumpled the bottom of her scrub shirt in her hand as if to hide the stain. "Sorry… I came right out. I heard that some of you were really anxious for some news."

All heads turned to stare at Rodney.

"What? Like you all weren't concerned?"

Sam watched as Keller straightened and she witnessed what Carson Beckett must have seen in the young woman. The fidgeting stopped and the doctor smoothed out the wrinkled shirt, composing her face into a picture of cool professionalism.

"Dr. McKay, we're a pretty small medical staff. A medical crisis like Colonel Sheppard's means all hands on deck. Nurses scrub in for the OR, they prep the instruments, they ready the recovery area. When you call on the radio repeatedly you pull them away from their duties."

"What, washing out bedpans?" Rodney said huffily but without any bite behind it. Now it was his turn to let his anxiety show. He shifted the laptop to his other arm and squirmed a bit before raising his head to face her. "Sorry," he said shortly.

"Apology accepted," the doctor replied with a small smile. She moved a stray piece of hair, stringy from sweat, away from her forehead. "We were in there for a long time, I know. But it's only because we were being thorough. I'm sure you can all appreciate the necessity."

"Can you give us a rundown, doc?" Lorne spoke up, startling Sam. She'd almost forgotten Sheppard's 2IC was there, caught up as she was in Hurricane Rodney.

Keller nodded. "As we figured, his impact with the console caused internal damage. Unfortunately, it was worse than I originally believed. Colonel Sheppard suffered a stellate fracture of his liver."

"A fracture … of his liver? Since when is the liver a bone, doc?" Lorne asked before anyone else could.

"I know it sounds odd, Major, but that's exactly what it is. But we repaired it and it's being supported with heavy layers of gauze. As long as his condition remains stable, I'll go back in in a few days and remove the packing."

She took a deep breath and swiped away another string of hair. "He has a minor concussion from where his head hit the console, but of more concern was other head trauma we found. It looks like, during the crash, something from the cargo struck him here," she said, tapping the back of her skull. "Our scans show a subdural hematoma in the occipital lobe of his brain. We're treating it conservatively for now but we'll be monitoring him closely. He also has a partially dislocated hip and several cracked ribs."

"Thank you, Doctor Keller," Sam said, breaking the quiet in the room that lingered in the aftermath of Sheppard's list of woes. "Please keep me informed."

"Of course, Colonel." Keller turned as if to leave, then paused. "Dr. McKay? If you'd like to see him I can give you a few minutes. I'm sure they have him settled in by now."

"Oh? Oh. Yes, um, thank you." Rodney made it halfway to the door, following on the CMO's heels when Sam stopped him. "Rodney? You were supposed to be headed to your lab to download the data from the jumper."

She had to take a step back when Rodney wheeled around, stalked over and shoved the laptop into her hands. "You'd have to resort to measuring in fermis how little I care about this right now."

Before Sam could muster up a response he was gone.

* * *

"Never could stand that smell."

It was muttered so quietly she almost couldn't make it out.

"What smell is that, Dr McKay?"

"Iodine. First I-Chem class I took, one of our labs was showing the sublimation of iodine in its natural solid state to gas. The smell - so bitter. Acrid. Then of course, all my work in nuclear physics. Iodine sort of becomes your best friend. I-129 is a natural product of uranium and plutonium fission."

Jennifer nodded. "That's why they stock iodine pills. In case of exposure, you can flood the thyroid with 'clean' iodine to prevent the radioiodine uptake."

Rodney's nine-mile stare still hadn't left the curtained off bed. "They taste worse than aspirin. And the taste stays on your tongue, no matter how much water you drink."

Jennifer's eyes widened in surprise. "You - You've taken them before?"

"We had an 'event' at reactor where I worked. Had to take the damn pills for two weeks." He turned to her with a small, sad smile. "I lost ten pounds. Was convinced I'd contracted 'instant cancer' - it never dawned on me that the crap taste in my mouth had ruined my appetite. I wouldn't recommend it as a diet, though."

"That must've been a pretty scary couple of weeks."

"Hm. Scarier than that time I thought I had mono after a weekend with Tammy Scarfazzi. Not as scary as being infected with brain-exploding nanites our first month here."

"Yeah, I saw that in Carson's records," Jennifer replied. "You guys have had some rather… odd medical calamities. Pegasus hasn't always been a walk in the park, it seems."

"No. No it hasn't," Rodney agreed with a sigh, eyes returning to the bed in front of them. "Which is why this seems so… tragically normal. A jumper crash. Nothing Ancient - nothing alien. Just… gravity."

She walked to the side of the bed, pulling on a pair of latex gloves with practiced ease, and checked a drainage tube that ran from Sheppard's abdomen into a receptacle hung on the frame.

"It's Betadine."

"What?"

"The smell. It's Betadine, from the surgery. Iodine and polyvinylpyrrolidone."

"Oh. Yeah. I can see it. What did you paint him with it?"

Jennifer grimaced and picked up a sterile package of gauze from a bedside table. She pulled the fabric from its paper wrapping, poured some saline on it, and then proceeded to wipe away the saffron yellow stain from around the bandaging that covered Sheppard from his sternal notch down to where it disappeared under the sheet draped across his waist.

"The scrub nurse covered his entire midsection. She knew I wasn't sure what I was going to find once I opened him up."

"Opened him up. Like he's a car you just popped the hood on."

Jennifer paused in her ministrations and studied Rodney's face. She expected to find accusation or disgust, or at least contempt. It was well known, his dismissal of medicine as voodoo nonsense.

But instead, all she saw was fear, reflected in widened eyes and his pale complexion.

"I suppose you're right," she said slowly, cautiously. "We need fuel and oxygen like cars. We have cooling and exhaust systems. And we both need regular maintenance," she added as she checked the readouts on the monitor above the bed.

"Guess that makes him a Lamborghini," Rodney said with a humph. "I'm more of a '93 Honda. Although, can cars have allergies?"

Jennifer looked away from studying Sheppard's EEG readings to see Rodney smiling at her.

"I had a Ford pickup in college that wouldn't start for anyone but me, so yeah, I guess cars can have their own… idiosyncrasies. I need to check some, uh stuff -- under the sheet," she added as she looked at Rodney pointedly.

He blushed a little but turned around as she pulled the sheet away from the colonel's waist to look at his hip. The swelling wasn't too bad but the bruising was already tainting his flesh with a painful eggplant purple. She made a quick check to make sure the Foley was doing its job, then she pulled the sheet back in place and gave Rodney the all clear.

She moved to the head of the bed and began making adjustments to the crown of sensors that currently ringed Sheppard's head, checking the connections, then peeling back his lids to flash the penlight in each eye.

The one pupil still wasn't reacting properly, she noted with concern. She reached over and pulled up a machine that sat on a cart parked next to the bed, orienting the neck of the instrument over the colonel's head.

"What's that?"

"It's a cephalohemometer." She fought a smile as she could almost see the scientist breaking the word down into its roots.

"Head… blood… measurement?" he tried with admirable effort. Jennifer knew the effort Rodney was making to work within the confines of this 'lesser' science.

"Good! It measures the blood pressure in the head."

"How -- I mean, don't you normally have to drill holes in the skull or something equally barbaric?"

"If this was a normal hospital, yes. But, in case it got past you, this isn't a normal hospital, Dr. McKay. We have a little advantage over normal medicine here. This machine uses sound waves to measure ICP - intracranial pressure. I'd like to avoid "drilling holes" in his head if I can."

"I'm sure he'd tell you he appreciates that, if he could. Just shaving his head alone could push him over the edge."

She grinned and shook her head. "He's not Samson - but it _would_ be a crime." Then the grin faded as she noted the readouts from the ICP-meter.

"What?"

"It's still elevated. But," she said firmly, walking over and placing a hand on Rodney's shoulder, pushing him out of the room. "It's still early days - heck, it's still early hours. He'll have 'round the clock monitoring, and my staff and I will do everything I can to get him back on his feet. Which means your visiting is over."

"But- but --"

"No, buts, Dr. McKay. Go get some rest and eat something. And you can call my radio - once an hour- okay?"

Rodney stopped at the exit of the infirmary and took another glance back at Sheppard's bed. Then he turned to her and almost managed to meet her eyes.

"I'm sorry - about the Homecoming Queen crack."

"I know, Dr. McKay. I haven't been here long but I already have a pretty good handle on how you deal with stress. You can find my CV in the personnel files if you'd like to check my qualifications."

"I, uh…. I did that. First week you were here. Standard practice- you know - I mean, if was going to let you stick needles in me or pull arrows out of me, I needed to know. It's why I'm apologizing. Besides, I like to think Carson was a pretty good judge of character. And call me Rodney."

And with that he turned and left the infirmary. Jennifer sighed then turned around to head back to Sheppard's bedside once more.


	4. Chapter 4 of 22

"Dr. Keller? He's back again."

Jennifer looked up at Sandy's quietly muttered words to see Rodney standing at the doorway.

Taking a none too subtle look at her watch, she sighed. She was just as concerned that Colonel Sheppard still hadn't full awakened after thirty-six hours but she'd comforted herself with the readings from the EEG sensors still attached to the unconscious man's head. He'd left his alpha coma twenty hours after he'd come out of surgery and been humming along in the deep sleep signaled by delta waves that had been running in smooth, regular hills and valleys for the last sixteen. For the most part. The interruptions were troubling and the reason for Rodney's frequent visits to her office.

"What's up, Rodney?" she asked, knowing the answer before he gave it but not yet cranky enough to cut him off at the knees.

"He's waking up."

Sighing, she sat up on her stool and stretched, wincing as she felt the strain of her left trapezius. Her fingers reached up to dig at the offended muscle and mentally amended her initial diagnosis to involvement of the levator scapula. Too many hours bent over her desk, pouring over hours of readouts and the SGC and Ancient medical databases.

"I explained about the myoclonic seizures, Rodney. They make his arms and hands, and even sometimes his eyes twitch. They're a result of the head trauma and –"

"--Yes, yes, I know. I've seen the Tourette's thing he's been doing. But—"

"It's _not_ Tourette's, R—"

"--I _know_ it isn't- it's just the easiest way to describe it because that's NOT what he's doing right now. Unless actually opening his eyes is a seizure?"

Jennifer whipped her head around, cursing as she felt the cold-hot burn of a muscle tear running down the back of her neck into her shoulder blade. The EEG was showing betas. And by the sharp, prickly jagged spikes that were flooding the screen, he was in a great deal of distress. Almost simultaneously his heart monitor began a tinny beep and she noted his pulse and respirations were elevating as well. The same could not be said for his pulse ox- when the glowing number dropped below ninety that alarm joined the chorus.

Grabbing up her stethoscope from where it lay curled like a snake on the desktop, she launched up off her stool and jogged over to the curtained off area where Colonel Sheppard was.

Her best ICU nurse, Cadence, was already stooped over him where he laid, head raised until he was almost sitting up, one hand turning up the oxygen feed while the other held the mask in place over his mouth.

"He took it off," the nurse explained unnecessarily.

Jennifer flicked her eyes from the monitor back to Sheppard. He was in obvious distress, but it didn't appear to be completely physical. His eyes sprang open and looked wildly around, not fixing on anything or anyone and he was moaning from underneath the plastic mask.

When the monitor number for his pulse ox returned to the mid-nineties she signaled for Cadence to take the mask off while she prepped him a cannula. Once she had it strung underneath his nose and Cadence had it attached to the wall she took Sheppard's wrist and began smoothing her thumb over the soft underflesh.

"Colonel, you need to relax," she soothed, her eyes ping-ponging from the monitor to the EEG to his face and back again. It was a delicate balance, keeping him calm but making sure his ICP and BP, heart rate and pulse ox, stayed where they should be. "Cadence, push 1 mg. of Ativan, please. Keep another in reserve in case that's not enough."

The whole time her thumb kept up its slow rotation on the smooth, cool skin of his wrist. "It's okay, Colonel," she urged gently.

And it was, or at least it was getting better. His eyes had already slid back shut but his breathing was getting easier, the rise and fall of his chest getting slower and deeper.

But before she could allow a little relief in this, the hand under hers suddenly twitched and was soon joined by the other, then the colonel's legs and shoulders. His lips smacked and his eyes jerked behind his closed lids.

A quick glance at the EEG confirmed her observations. Another seizure, this one still mild but worse than the others he'd been experiencing. "Cadence, make that four migs. And ready some clonazepam wafers. Oh, and, Cadence?"

"Yes, Dr. Keller?"

"Find out where Dr. Pirogov is."

"He's still at Midway," came an answer from an unexpected source. Jennifer looked over and saw that Rodney was still in the curtained off room, wringing his hands, his face pale as milk. "He - he's still in quarantine. I think he still has a few hours left, but if - if you need him - do you need him? Does Sheppard need--?"

"No. No, these are still those mini-seizures I told you about, Rodney. I'm still monitoring his ICP and his hematoma appears to be holding steady. I wouldn't mind a neurologist here with a second opinion, though. Cadence, let's make sure of Dr. Pirogov's whereabouts and see if they can't speed things up a bit, huh?"

"Right away, Dr Keller," the nurse answered before hastening away.

She gazed down at her patient and noted that the twitching had stopped and his eyes had opened. They had that glazy, sleepy post-ictal look to them, but that was to be expected.

"Colonel?" she tried, rubbing her hand on his shoulder. "Can you hear me?"

She was rewarded with a slow nod and his eyes wandered her way, dragging in their sockets.

"Hey!" she said encouragingly. "Welcome back. How are you feeling?"

He blinked several times and ran his tongue over his lips with a grimace.

"Sorry. I know. Probably tastes like something died in your mouth, huh?" she joked gently. "I'll get you some ice chips if you stay awake long enough, okay?"

She searched his face, looking for signs that he was registering, and she wasn't happy with what she was seeing. "Colonel? I need to look in your eyes for a second. It'll probably be… uncomfortable, but I do need a quick peek? Okay?"

No answer, but no protest so she clicked on her penlight and peeled back a lid, dashing the light across his exposed eye. He groaned but didn't pull back so she quickly moved over and completed the same maneuver. This time he groaned and pulled away, but not before she saw the pupil remain sluggishly open despite the light.

"All done," she said brightly, then made a show of putting the penlight securely back in her pocket. Not that he saw her do it. His eyes were squinched shut and he was rubbing his knuckles clumsily against his closed lids.

"Why isn't he talking?" Rodney whispered - or at least what was whispering for him.

Calmly, she turned to him and smiled, keeping up an unconcerned expression for her patient. "Colonel Sheppard is acting quite normally for someone who has just come out of anesthesia for major surgery, Rodney. I'm sure he just needs some time to sort things through the morphine and Ativan as well," she reminded him with a pointed look.

Turning back to the man in the bed, she was pleased to see slivers of hazel peering through lids at half mast. "Are you gonna stay with us for a bit, Colonel?" she tried again, this time rubbing his arm underneath the IV tubing.

He gave a non-committal grunt in response, then shifted slightly. She saw him wince and placed her other hand on his shoulder. "Not so fast, Colonel. Your meds are good but they're not that good. Tell you what," she said, maintaining her chipper, cheery talk. "You answer me a few questions and I'll let you go back to sleep, okay?"

With a sigh he gave the slightest of nods then lifted a shaky hand to knead at the bridge of his nose.

"Headache, Colonel?"

He licked his dry lips once more, then sighed out a 'yeah'. He spread his fingers out and rubbed his eyes.

Jennifer looked up at the sound of the curtain moving. It was Cadence, carrying a tray of syringes, a bottle of pills and a plastic cup of ice. "Dr. Pirogov is on Midway, Dr. Keller."

"Told you."

She chose to ignore Rodney's muttering as she took the tray from Cadence.

"I told 'em you'd appreciate anythin' they could do to expedite his arrival and they said they'd 'see what they could do'."

"Thanks, Cadence. I think that's it for now. I want him on 10 minute vitals checks."

"No problem, Dr. Keller. I'll be nearby if you need me."

Accepting Jennifer's grateful nod, the nurse left the curtained area. The doctor was pleased to see that Colonel Sheppard tracked her leaving with his eyes.

"See, Colonel? I told you there'd be ice. One rocks on the rocks, coming up."

There was no answering smile to her dumb joke, one which she'd used in the past that usually got at least a good-natured groan.

"I know it's not exactly A-list material," she said with a sigh. "Okay. Like I said, Colonel, just a few questions to see if you're firing on all cylinders and then I'll let you go back to sleep. Nothing tough yet; you can wait for Prime-Not Prime until you're feeling better."

Rodney quirked a sad smile and took a step closer to the bed. "Actually, that would probably be easier for the Human Calculator."

"Standard memory questions work better under these circumstances, but thanks, Rodney. Okay, Colonel. Do you know where you are?"

Her patient stared at the end of the bed, blinked a few times and rubbed at his eyes. "'Lantis. 'firmary," he said in a hoarse whisper.

"Good," she said encouragingly, watching him closely. "Do you know who the President is?"

At that he closed his eyes down completely. Sweat was beading on his forehead and his hands began clenching the sheet. "Carter."

"Oh my god, he -- he's lost thirty years!" Rodney said with a horrified gasp. "How -- how - what –"

"Just stop - stop, Rodney. The brain can do funny things, especially in the… state that his is in. He may have chosen the wrong answer, or his brain may have interpreted the words differently than they normally would. Colonel, do you mean Jimmy Carter?"

Sheppard opened his eyes, cocked his head and stared at her drunkenly, but there was a spark of indignation. "Samantha … Carter. Colonel…"

Jennifer smiled. "She is sorta President around here isn't she? Who is President of the United States? Your commander in chief?"

Sheppard shook his head lightly and pressed his fingers back to his eyes.

"Okay, no problem, Colonel. Let's try something easier. Do you know who this man is here?" she asked, pointing at Rodney.

Hazel eyes squinted in Rodney's direction as the man in question squirmed, moving his weight from foot to foot.

"D-"

"Oh, my God! My name does not begin with 'd' - he's - Keller, you have to fix this!"

"Dubya."

"My name - my name doesn't start with 'w', either - my god—"

Jennifer smiled. "He's just lagging a little behind, Rodney. That's right, Colonel. Do you remember what happened to you?"

Sheppard scowled and started to shake his head, then grimaced and stopped. "No," he said, his voice no clearer than the first few times he'd used it.

"What do you remember?"

Her patient considered the question, letting his eyes drop shut again. Just as she was beginning to think that he'd drifted off, he opened them again and stared at Rodney. "Jump'r mod'fications."

"Okay- that's just weird, because we hadn't even tried them yet," Rodney said, his eyes growing wide. "How is he remembering something we haven't even done yet?"

"Not tried…. Talked… about them…" Sheppard croaked out before taking a deep inhale from his oxygen.

Jennifer met eyes with the physicist. "That was right before his Highness came… about a week ago," Rodney said stonily.

Pasting on a smile of reassurance, she looked down at her patient. "It'll come back. Okay- I think that's enough for now. You did great, Colonel Sheppard. I keep my promises. Time for you to go back to sleep; you should feel better the next time you wake up."

She expected to see the man relax and close his eyes; he'd been on the verge of passing out the whole time and she could tell he was in a significant, and worse, increasing, amount of pain.

What she didn't expect was for him to be staring at her with growing fear. She watched as his eyes narrowed as he squinted again.

"What's -- what's wrong with my eyes?"

"'N-nothing, Colonel. The penlight was just –"

"No. No, I can't-- I - I can't see." He sucked in a deep noseful of oxygen and tried sitting forward. Jennifer placed a steadying hand on his shoulder.

"Colonel Sheppard-- John. Just relax. Tell me what's going on."

"It's all blurry -- dark. Blurry - I -"

"John, you need to relax," she said firmly. But her words made no impact on him. She took his hand and squeezed it, bending closer and speaking as calmly as she could muster while witnessing his increasing distress.

"John, you need to calm down. I promise you, we'll figure it out and fix it. Please. You need to –"

It was too late. Stress raised the heart's rate. Raised the blood pressure and, of course, raised the pressure in his head. The monitor began beeping out its warning klaxon as the seizure began.

"Damn it!" she yelled, lowering the head of the bed. "It's a grand mal. Cadence!"

* * *

Sam tapped her fingers rhythmically on the desk as she stared bleary-eyed at the forty-five unread messages in her inbox. It appeared she needed to go over the definition of 'priority' with her staff since the last thirty e-mails had been earmarked with the angry exclamation mark icon. Instinctively she reached out for her bottle of water, shaking the empty container in disappointment.

She rubbed fingers over her burning eyes and searched the bottom drawer for a bottle of aspirin to help put a dent in her headache. Of course there wasn't anything to wash them down with but she didn't want to leave her office and get behind on paperwork. The last twenty-hours had found her deluged with mini-crises, her normal workload and having to re-arrange the engineering teams. She'd also had to shuffle personnel between assisting in a mining project on MXP-253, the structural integrity inspections of the lower levels, and now the retrieval of the crashed jumper.

The initial report on the accident was too thin and most of their theories had more holes than Swiss cheese. The mechanical part of the equation would remain a mystery until the jumper could be inspected and the computer data banks analyzed. They were gathering data, atmospheric readings and weather patterns of the planet, in hopes of finding some type of anomaly, but they had nothing on the conditions at the time of the accident.

"Colonel Carter?"

She looked up to see Chuck in the doorway, clutching a PDA and a cup with steam rising from it. "Yes, come in," she said.

The gate technician entered and set the mug down with a small grin. "Got you some coffee."

"Oh my God, you read my mind. _Thank_ you," she enthused, scooping up the mug and inhaling deeply of the aromatic steam.

"I also have Dr. Kincaid's report on the temperature models for power consumption," he said.

She sipped slowly at the steaming coffee, wracking her brain on why that rang a bell. "Oh, yeah, that was due today. And why isn't Dr. Kincaid here to present it?"

Chuck found a spot on the floor very intriguing, a ghost of a smile on his face. "I told him you were unavailable."

"Oh. Well, thank you for screening my visitors."

"Didn't think you wanted to listen to theories on how raising the temperature by two degrees would affect energy conservation."

She wanted to laugh. Even Chuck knew of Dr. Kincaid's obsession with everything green. "No... not right now."

An uncomfortable silence followed and he cleared his throat. "You know, we all think Colonel Sheppard is going to be alright. This is the man that scaled the tower without blinking. This is nothing."

It was amazing, the awe and respect the people of Atlantis held for their military commander; it was very much like the comic book heroes that John and Rodney went on and on about. Caught up in her ruminations, she almost failed to realize that Chuck still stood there. It dawned on her that he was waiting for her acknowledgment and reassurance.

"He's in the best possible hands and things look very optimistic," she said, plastering on a smile.

If there was any doubt, the young man didn't show it. "I'd better get back to my post. I know we're expecting a communication from Captain Offerman's Team."

"Thanks for the coffee," she replied, gesturing with the mug cradled in her hands.

"No problem, Colonel."

Sam stretched her back until the vertebrae popped before sitting back down to see forty-_seven_ e-mails now waited for her attention. The newest one was from Zelenka and she clicked on it, even though a part of her didn't want to. She'd been in touch with General Landry no less than three times since this whole disaster; he was under a lot of pressure for results and there just wasn't a way to make things happen fast enough.

The attached document was short and to the point. There wasn't a smoking gun in the preliminary reports from the 'black box', had been no distress calls or warning alarms from internal sensors signaling a mechanical failure. There had been some type of electrical power problem, but it was going to take time to trace.

There were only two people that might shed some light on the situation. Teyla had been seated behind the pilot's seat and was not familiar with the mechanical workings of the craft, plus she was still recovering from surgery and under observation. That left Colonel Sheppard-- and the man was battling for his life.

At least she had his team. She could count on them to rally around Sheppard and support him at every step. What she really needed was their help during this crisis, to put all that nervous energy into this investigation- especially Rodney. The man had repeatedly let her know in no uncertain terms how little he cared about helping or how he didn't have the time, despite being a constant nuisance in the infirmary.

It still amazed her to see the change in him from the man she'd known during his time at Stargate Command. He finally understood what it meant to belong to a team. Very few people comprehended that type of bond outside of the military or law enforcement; your partner, your squad, your team, became family. The downside was the pain you felt when your family suffered. Her eyes lingered on the pictures on her bookshelves; she understood the hurt Rodney felt and her heart ached in sympathy.

"_Colonel Carter."_

She tapped her radio. "Yes, Chuck."

"_There's a security Alpha One message for you from Richard Woolsey."_

That couldn't be good. "Patch him through to my office."

"_Sending it on channel three."_

She wished she had downed that aspirin before having to deal with the bureaucrat. Woolsey and the Atlantis contingent had parted ways after one of their more unusual crises on pretty good terms, despite the fact she'd almost tossed him in the brig. Normally IOA members did not respond kindly to such disregard of their authority, but, thankfully, her instincts had been correct about the hive ships.

The bureaucrat's frazzled face appeared on the screen, his scowl barely hidden by his glasses. His entire posture was ramrod stiff and he practically vibrated with tension. _"Colonel Carter."_

"Mr. Woolsey," she smiled.

"_I'm sure you know why I'm contacting you."_

"I have a suspicion, but I'm not exactly sure how badgering me will get you answers any faster than General Landry could."

"_Where are you on the investigation?"_

She wanted to ask if he had even read the latest databurst. "On hour forty-seven since the crash, the last I looked."

Woolsey seemed worn down, closing his eyes in a dramatic effort to show patience. _"Please, Colonel. Indulge me."_

"We don't even have the jumper on base yet; we expect to salvage it tomorrow."

"_Expect to? I would have made that my top priority."_

"I'm sorry, I was busy making arrangements for Prince Fahd's body to be returned in under a day as per Muslim custom for burial," she replied, not even raising an eyebrow.

Woolsey's features softened, seemingly put in his place_. "Yes, and the family did appreciate the effort it took, even allowing the body to skip quarantine at the Midway station."_ He let out a breath and leaned back in his chair. "_I need_ _something..._ _How about interviews or computer data?"_

"You know it takes time to sift through an entire download from a computer core. And I wanted Teyla to rest after her ordeal and didn't want to ask questions while she was under the influence of pain medication."

"_Of course. What about Colonel Sheppard?"_

There was diligence and then there was blatant disregard for another person's health. Sam felt the political filter between her brain and mouth begin to fail. "Do you know how many pints of blood were used during Colonel Sheppard's surgery?"

"_Colonel--"_

"--_Seven_ units. The man has an incision from stem to stern and we don't know the extent of his head trauma. I'll be happy if he wakes up and proves to us that he's all there."

"_I'm trying to do you a favor, Colonel Carter."_

There was something genuine in his voice; his tone held a warning and dread tightened its hold on her gut. "Should I be worried?"

Woolsey seemed to weigh his options regarding the truth; his face reflected brutal honesty. _"Prince Fahd's family is in an uproar over this crash. They are putting a lot of pressure on the rest of the committee and anyone who'll listen to find answers."_

"I understand their grief, I even sent a letter of condolence, but we've just begun our investigation. And I'm not going to rush into things. A ticking clock can cause sloppy mistakes and I won't be bullied by the IOA. Last I checked, I work for the SGC."

"_And the IOA controls the purse strings, Colonel. This is a major incident that has many of your superiors worried. I'm telling you now- make sure you pursue every avenue. Cross your t's and dot your i's because your reports will be heavily scrutinized."_

"We will be very thorough, Mr. Woolsey."

"_Even if you don't like where it takes you?"_

Sam wasn't keen on where the conversation was going. She stood up, her chair rolling away behind her. "I don't even have a hint where we'll find ourselves at the end of this. There's a chance we may never know what happened. Accidents are tragic like that."

"_I'm just saying. I'd try to find out why the jumper was being flown into a dangerous storm."_

There it was. The subtle tilt of his chin, the little nuance in his voice. It clicked and Sam got the message loud and clear. "I'll be sure to send you daily updates; that way you can stay informed."

Woolsey relaxed a little. _"That would be much appreciated."_

"Carter out."

She slumped back in her chair, ran a hand through her hair and snagged the bottle of aspirin, dumping three chalky white tablets into her palm and chasing them down with her now lukewarm coffee. She had to find answers and she feared all of them lay with the man least able to give them to her.


	5. Chapter 5 of 22

The quiet was comforting and there had been too little of it of late.

Atlantis was a massive city, the largest Teyla had ever been in, despite visits to planets across the galaxy. But the infirmary was small, confined to a honeycomb of rooms and labs, the beds where the sick and injured lay separated by thin fabric curtains. Part of this was out of necessity. The labs where most of the medical work took place surrounded the ward of beds; Teyla had been witness more than once to a miracle cure, hurriedly engineered out of genes and nanites, plant material or Wraith enzyme, rushed in to save a patient in dire need.

And the medical staff was small. Keller and two other doctors, a handful of nurses and a few aides were all that did battle for soldiers and civilians alike, brought down by stunner, Ancient device, Wraith, bullets, poisoning, exotic diseases and by the other various two-legged, four-legged- and multi-legged creatures of Pegasus.

Keeping their patients in a single area meant better medical coverage, maximizing their small numbers, especially during the larger crises that seemed to befall the city too often.

She understood all this implicitly, but it didn't make it any easier.

John's bed was at the furthest end of the infirmary, right outside the office used by the medical staff. Outside the room most still referred to as Carson's office. Even Dr. Keller had seemed reluctant to call it i_her/i_ office, despite the clear right she had to do so.

Even had she not gotten confirmation of his location from one of the nurses, she'd have known. The oft-repeated pattern of rapid beeping followed by the sound of bodies rushing at speed in that direction for most of the night was enough.

Each of the medical staff that had visited for vitals checks and med changes had assured her that Colonel Sheppard was in good hands and that they were monitoring him closely, that he was getting the best of care and she shouldn't worry herself. But none had said he was going to be fine.

But it had been quiet for the past few hours; there'd been no controlled panic dashes to the far end of the infirmary and she finally allowed herself to relax a little in her bed. Her arm was still a dull ache, muffled by Dr. Keller's generosity with pain medications that she'd been assured would have no effect on her baby's well-being. That the pain was as subtle as it was was testimony to the doctor's skill and the miracles of Earth medicine. Her forearm was a discolored, swollen amalgamation of mottled flesh and metal that she would have to endure until the surgical wound healed enough for the plaster she would wear for at least six to eight weeks. With physical therapy she'd been assured she should have full use of it back in time for her child's birth.

Just thinking of it quickened her heartbeat and she smiled as her son's did the same. Part of the pleasure of having the infirmary quiet had been listening to the four-four rhythm that ran on the monitor next to her bed. She squirmed and readjusted the fetal heart monitoring belt that encircled her swollen belly and she allowed a wider grin as her movement made her infant dance within his warm, watery environs.

She was still smiling as she heard the unmistakable sound of a throat being cleared nearby. She looked up and saw two shadows outside the curtain. One was unmistakable- no missing the silhouette of that height and that hair. The other was smaller and much more compact; Rodney? No. The form turned and she saw the military bearing in his patient stance as they waited.

She pulled the blanket up a bit over a gown leaving not much to the imagination, and sat further up in her bed. "Come in, Ronon. You too, Major Lorne."

The two men came around the curtain, bearing what looked like almost sheepish expressions, especially odd on Ronon's face.

The Satedan nodded at her, jutted his chin in her direction. "You look good. Better."

She rolled her eyes a little and self-consciously tucked a piece of lank, unwashed hair behind her ear. While far from vain, she was well aware of how she looked after surgery and being bed bound for the last two days.

"I do not, 'look good', Ronon, but thank you for the sentiment. Although it makes me wonder how awful I must look for you to feel the need to compliment me." She said it with a teasing smile, knowing Ronon would take it in the manner she meant it.

"You look beautiful."

There was a moment of awkward silence as she and Ronon turned to Lorne. He had a very serious look, one out of place on the usually laid back major's boyish face. His eyes grew a little larger. "What? My brother in law used to say it to my sister when she was expecting and it always made her feel better. Not that you don't - look -- good-- healthier, Teyla."

She fought a smile and pulled the blanket a little closer to her chin. "Thank you, Major. I feel a little healthier. And Dr. Keller assures me that my baby is doing well and my arm will heal so that puts my mind at peace." She frowned. "I wish I could say that I have received the same assurances about John. Do you know how he is doing?"

She watched carefully as the two men exchanged loaded glances.

"They said they're monitoring him closely. He's getting the best of care."

"Yeah," Lorne chimed in, "he's in good hands --"

"--And I am not to worry," she sighed. "They tell you nothing more than I have already been told?"

There was that exchange again, each set of eyes clearly signaling the other.

"I am not an invalid," she said, straightening further in bed. The wince she couldn't hold back when she jarred her arm put some lie to her words but she set her jaw. "What is going on? I am not some -- wilting flower or--"

Ronon slid his hip onto the bed and rested a hand on her arm, stopping her stammering for a more worthy metaphor.

"He's not doing so great. There. That make you feel better?"

She smoothed the blanket under her hands and composed her face. "Of course not. But I appreciate being spoken to honestly. What is happening?"

Lorne turned the bedside chair around and dropped his legs around the back, settling his arms across the top. "Docs really aren't saying much. He had surgery- they patched up his liver and some of his other guts. Guess that part's doing okay, but he got knocked pretty good in the head. He's been having seizures and…"

"And?" she prompted.

When Lorne paused Ronon shrugged. "His eyesight's all messed up. They gated in some fancy brain doc from Earth. Talks a little like Zelenka. They said he can fix Sheppard up."

Teyla could do little more than nod as she took it all in. When she was done she looked up to see the two men locking gazes once again. She tightened her mouth and set her sternest gaze on Lorne, the one she knew would be easier to sway.

"There is more." Not a question, a statement of fact. She girded herself for further bad news, her hand slipping under the blanket to rub gently at her belly, easing a bout of restlessness in her child, no doubt brought on by his mother's turbulent emotions.

Lorne gave a short half-chuckle, half-sigh, rubbed at the back of his neck and looked away for a moment before meeting her eyes. "This… this wasn't purely a social call."

It was not what she was expecting. "I see. And the other purpose of the visit was…?"

"We need to ask you about what happened on the jumper. We haven't been able to figure out what caused you guys to crash."

Confused, she cocked her head and ran through her memory of the crash. It was spotty. The mad dash in the icy rain, sitting in her seat shivering in her soaked clothing as they took off.

"I assumed it was the storm," she said slowly. "A lightning hit…?"

Ronon was already shaking his head. "We found no sign the jumper got hit with anything - lightning, missile, energy beam. Can you describe how it happened?"

She squirmed in the bed, trying to get more comfortable, fighting to adjust the pillow behind her with one IV laden arm and sighed gratefully as Lorne rose to help her.

He gave her a bashful smile and said, "Sorry. Not fussing."

"I do not mind a certain amount of fussing, Major," she said with a small returned smile. "Thank you." Settling back, a bit more comfortable, she closed her eyes and took in a few deep breaths as she tried to organize her memories.

"We had spent the day with Tellen and Mina on Dargara. We were leaving on the jumper… the storm was quite bad. John and the prince were up front. The two of them argued; I remember the colonel getting quite angry with Fahd. Then… everything went dark."

"You mean the HUD?" Lorne supplied helpfully.

"Yes. That and everything else. All of the lights. The engines. As if someone had turned off all of the power in the jumper. I… I heard John curse. I could not really see what he was doing as I was seated behind him but it appeared he began attempting to return power and control of the ship but … it was only seconds later that… everything went black."

"What made you think it was the storm?" Ronon asked.

"Well, we had only been in the air for a short time. We were over the area they call the Barrens that border Tellen and Mina's lands. The… the turbulence was very bad. We were being buffeted by very strong winds… I remember the jumper dipping and rocking… we knew it was going to be a bad storm, but…"

"You knew?" Lorne interrupted.

She nodded. "Yes, Tellen, of course, knows the weather patterns there. He had been telling us earlier of how bad the storms had been of late. He warned us not to fly but…"

"But what?" Ronon grunted.

But what, indeed. While she had been curious as to the reason why John had been so insistent they leave, she had felt no true concern in leaving. She had the utmost respect for John's piloting skills and had been through worse storms in the jumper without incident.

"John felt the need to leave," she replied simply. "I did not question it; I still do not question the decision."

Lorne raised an eyebrow and she narrowed her gaze at him. "What does it matter why we crashed? All that should matter is that John get better as soon as possible."

"I agree - of course," he said hastily. "But… the prince was a VIP - or at least the son of one, back on Earth. Colonel Carter said there's been an inquiry launched. Fahd may have been little more than a pain in the ass to us but he was important to a major purse-holder in the IOA and they want answers." He sighed. "Answers that we can't give them. Colonel Sheppard never said anything? Why he decided to leave in the storm?"

She shook her head slowly. "He did seem eager to return. Deemed it of the utmost importance. He mentioned some testing he wanted to do, of the jumpers, with Rodney."

Lorne just shook his head. "And he didn't say anything when the jumper failed? Did Fahd say anything? I mean, the guy did have at least a marginal knowledge of flight. Did you hear either of them say anything?"

"No… well … just before the crash…"

Ronon sat up. Her reluctance must have been clear on her face. "What?"

"I am sure it meant nothing."

"We'll take whatever you got, Teyla," Lorne said earnestly. "We need to feed these jackals at the IOA something."

She took in a deep breath. Glanced at Ronon and saw a glimmer of fear there. Certain that what she would say would be damning.

"Just before the craft failed… the two of them argued. Fahd tried wresting control of the craft away and John became furious. The prince accused John of steering us into a bank of storm clouds."

"I don't believe that a pilot as seasoned and expert as Sheppard could miss something as obvious as that," Lorne scoffed. "If he was really headed for them, he must have believed they were navigable or maybe he would have taken you above them to even out the ride a little."

She nodded. "As I said. I am sure it meant nothing." She shifted again, restlessly, the infant in her womb now kicking as if working with his own set of Banto rods. The movement jarred her arm and she let out a small cry of pain.

Ronon was immediately on his feet, balanced as if to take off, but having nowhere to go and nothing to do. His rising jiggled the bed and she grimaced as the ache in her arm grew.

Lorne stood from his chair as well. "I'm sorry, Teyla. This just -- we didn't wanna do this now. Colonel Carter didn't really want it either. It's just that --"

"I understand, Major." She paused as Ronon apparently made a decision, ducking out around the curtain without a word. "I do not blame you; I know this is important. I just wish that I could have been more help."

Ronon came back with Keller in tow, practically shoving the doctor at Teyla's bedside. The doctor smiled at Teyla with a small, affectionate roll of her eyes at the big man. "I've been paged before but never dragged bodily. You having some pain, Teyla?"

"Yes," Ronon answered before she could.

Teyla nodded tiredly. "I am. My arm… aches."

Keller raised her eyebrows. "Considering I pretty much nailed your radius and ulna back together, I would think you'd be experiencing more than aching."

Before Teyla could respond the doctor was already uncapping a syringe she pulled from her coat pocket and injecting it into Teyla's IV.

"Okay, gentlemen, That's all for now. You can visit later -- maybe. Depends on how much sleep she gets."

Ronon leaned over and squeezed her ankle through the blankets. "Feel better," he muttered before leaving, Lorne tossing her a small wave goodbye as well.

Keller stood by her bed and gave Teyla an appraising look. "You… you look unhappy. More than just tired and in pain, I mean."

Teyla sighed and settled back into her pillows as the pain medication cooled the fire in her arm and numbed her thoughts. She didn't answer the doctor, afraid to voice her concern that she had made things worse. Instead she rubbed her hand again lightly on her belly and drifted off to the sounds of her son's steady heartbeat.

* * *

There was a burning sensation that ran from his chest down to his navel. Every draw of oxygen pulled at the layers of cut open muscle and increased the jackhammer at work inside his skull. It felt like he'd been in a fight. Not a bar scuffle; a real knock-down, dragged out beating. Sparring accident? Maybe. A battle with a Wraith? Possibly.

The harder he thought, the sharper the pain stabbed him between the eyes. He wanted to dull the ache with the palm of his hand, but it twitched uselessly at his command. Was he drugged?

He groaned, wanting to find out who had bashed him in the head with a Louisville slugger

"Colonel Sheppard?"

His hands flopped on the bed like fish on dry dock, panicking him.

"Easy does it...You're gonna be okay, sir."

Something warm stroked his hand and he pulled away out of instinct. "G't awa," he growled.

With another groan of effort he tried opening his eyes, but he must have been shit-faced drunk because the world blurred and swam before him. He had to slam his lids shut against the vertigo.

"I want you to concentrate on your breathin', Colonel. Just think of takin' slow, steady breaths."

Yeah, that was good; drawing in oxygen calmed the spinning sensation. His fingers tingled to life and he finally managed to lift a hand and rub it shakily across his forehead, only to get it tangled in something sticky and stringy.

"W'ts this"?

"It's okay. Those sensors are there to help monitor your ICP and other stats. I need you to leave 'em alone, though, sir," the voice chided him, returning his hand next to his side.

"Monitor what?" he croaked, cringing as it sent a spike of agony through his temples.

"Does your head hurt, sir?"

"Yeah," he whispered.

"Your next dose of pain medication isn't for another hour, but..."

If he wasn't feeling so disjointed he'd be able to peg her accent better... southern, maybe? There was a rustling nearby, the sounds of plastic tearing and being discarded. He whimpered in relief when he felt coolness laid over his forehead.

"This will ease the pain for a while, sir."

He relished the iciness as it seeped into the throbbing veins underneath his skin. "No need... to call me... that."

"Considerin' you're my commanding officer, yes, I do, sir."

"Really?" he asked curiously, keeping his eyes closed.

"Lieutenant Cadence Harris, proud member of the Air Force Nurse Corps."

"Must've… missed... your orientation," he mumbled.

"I don't think you handled mine, Colonel. Now just relax, I'm goin' to change out your bag of antibiotics."

His brain drifted in a fog while he tried to concentrate on his surroundings, a task made more difficult by the lull of soft beeping noises from the instruments that surrounded him. Something constrictive squeezed his bicep and it dawned on him that a BP cuff had been there the whole time, along with a clip on his finger and an IV line. He licked his lips and shifted, brushing the sheets over his bare chest. The head of the bed had been elevated, and he was almost sitting, his head and torso resting against a stack of pillows. He used that to his advantage, leaning over to take stock of himself, but the eruption of fire in his belly brought him to a gasping stop.

Vertigo assailed him and painted stars against the inside of his squeezed shut eyelids. He panted in pain, unable to speak or do much more than hold his breath. The beeping of one of the machines increased in tempo and then an alarm went off. He froze, afraid any movement would jar his fragile body.

Mere moments later the alarm was mercifully cut off and he felt warm hands on his shoulders.

"Sir, what have I told you about stayin' still?" the nurse asked, gently easing him back down.

He drew deeply at the oxygen under his nose, unable to summon enough to answer. The nurse's tone went from light scolding to soothing. "Remember earlier? Breathe through it."

After a dozen long breaths, each a little less ragged than the one before it, he finally brought his hammering heart rate down and the pain in his belly gradually ebbed away. He eased open his eyes and blinked slowly, lifting a shaky hand to rub at the moisture that had gathered on his lids.

He finally got his first view of his Florence Nightingale. The effect was like grease rubbed across a camera lens. Smeary. He could make out dark skin, like mahogany wood. Short dark hair pulled back behind her ears with two tiny clips. The harder he focused on the blur, the worse it got and his brow wrinkled as he squinted and the pain grew.

"Something...something's...," he struggled.

"I hear Doctor Keller comin'. I'm sure she'll explain things to you."

He squinched his eyes practically closed, trying to make his vision work, doubling the increasingly blurry image of the nurse before him.

"Cadence, is Colonel Sheppard awake?"

"Yes, he is, Doctor."

There were footfalls, the sound of the curtain being pushed aside and then two fuzzy-bordered forms stood at his bedside. With effort, he could just make out Keller's features and see that it was a strange man standing behind her in the murky shadows.

"Hey, Colonel. How are you feeling?" Keller asked, stepping closer and eying the cold strip. "Headache again?"

"Yeah... throbbing... whole... head hurts...jaw, too."

She winced in sympathy. "You've been experiencing some very mild seizures and you had a major one last night. The after effects can cause lingering muscle spasms."

He squeezed his eyes closed, unwilling to re-open them and expose the fear that was racing through him. "What happened to me?"

"You were in an accident."

"I... don't... remember... was..." He sifted through muddled thoughts and vague memories. "Was... anyone injured?"

"Teyla broke her arm but--"

"--Teyla?" His eyes sprang open in shock and horror and he cringed as it sent the pressure in his head skyrocketing, increasing the pounding.

"It was a bad break, but it's been repaired. She and the baby are fine. You need to relax, Colonel."

"What... accident?"

"We'll talk about that later when you're feeling better. I promise. But first you need to calm down. Slow, deep breaths."

He tried, struggled. A chill accompanied the pain that swelled in his abdomen and he tugged at the sheet, trying to pull it up further.

"Actually, Colonel, I need to check your incision site. If you're chilled, I'll get Cadence to get you a blanket," Keller said, peeling away the only thing providing any warmth.

He made an unmanly yelp, squirming unsuccessfully when Keller pulled away the tape and gauze that covered his torso. "Why... was Teyla... with me?" he asked to take his mind off of the exam.

"To accompany you, Colonel," Keller said evasively. "I'm sorry, I know this hurts, but I need to check for swelling or signs of infection."

Teyla didn't go on missions now; he'd never risk her or the baby's health. Why had she been with him?

He endured the torture of having his belly poked, trying and failing to stifle the gasps elicited as each prod sank daggers into his gut. Keller ran down his butcher's bill of injuries while he clawed at the bed sheet and listened with a detached ear.

When the hands stopped their relentless intrusions he breathed out a long sigh of relief and found his voice again. "Sounds like... I'm a wreck."

"I don't want you to become frustrated, Colonel. No, you won't just bounce back from this. You had major surgery and I don't want you trying to rush things. But you will improve."

Keller finished taping on new bandages and he was glad he'd been spared witnessing the damage. She pulled the sheet back up to his chest with a sweet, comforting if blurry smile.

"Colonel, could you look at me?"

He stared at her outline, trying to force her into focus. "All these... wires..." He lifted his hand with real effort, pointing a wavering finger at the electrode spiderweb glued to his forehead. "Are they gonna..." He blinked furiously, trying to shove away the pain. "Can they fix..."

He couldn't finish a train of thought that derailed on words like disability and honorably discharged.

"Colonel," Keller interrupted, placing her hand on his shoulder. "I've brought someone here to help. A specialist."

He needed a freaking specialist? The mysterious person standing in the background moved up next to Keller. John could make out a stocky build, broad shoulders and a bushy head of hair.

He introduced himself by taking John's hand and shaking it in a firm clasp. "Colonel Sheppard, I am Dr. Nikolai Pirogov. I work in advanced neurology. I am here to ask you a few questions, yes?"

John tried to put some strength into his grip, failing miserably. The new doctor was Russian; he knew they were heavily involved with the Stargate program. "Um... nice to meet you."

"You are not good liar, Colonel. But is okay," Pirogov commented. "You shook my hand, now could you do it again? See how much you can squeeze it?"

John re-doubled his effort, grimacing because his head was trying to implode.

"Very good, Colonel. Now the other one."

It took a moment to get his left hand to obey and while he knew it was probably because of the drugs, a sinister inner nagging whispered, 'brain damage'. "You said... I had... have a head injury?"

"There is a small hematoma, however, you're responding very well to your medications," Keller interjected.

"Yes, the bleed is three millimeters thick, very small," Pirogov added, his accent strong. "Your latest scans look promising. Your intracranial pressure is not bad, could be better. Maybe in a few days," the neurologist said, putting John's hand back down. "Now, how is your hearing? Any buzzing? Ringing?"

"No."

"Okay, good. Now, is pretty dim in here. I'm going to raise the lights. You let me know if it bothers you, yes?"

The darkness already hurt, but John wanted answers and consented to the brightness. Keller stood next to the bed, hand on his arm, watching him and a piece of equipment off to the side. The illumination in the room increased to fifty percent, forcing him to keep his eyes to mere slits.

Dr. Pirogov peered over. "How is the headache?"

"Worse," John said, clenching his jaw.

"I'll be quick," the doc replied. "Describe things to me."

"It's... it's like seeing through a car windshield during a storm," he grunted.

"You see shapes?"

"Yes."

"Colors?"

"Yeah."

"Is blurry? Fuzzy? How do you describe?"

John could make out the man's curly graying hair. It made him look like an electrocuted Muppet. He had an even wilder beard and smelled of mothballs and cheap cologne. "Everything's a blur."

"Any double vision?" the doctor asked, pulling out a penlight.

His head was going to split open and sweat dotted his brow, mixing with all the leads at his hairline. "For a few minutes, earlier... It's... gone now," he replied breathlessly.

Keller made worried sounds; one of the beeping machines had picked up speed. "Dr. Pirogov," she warned.

"We get you your pain meds in just a minute. I need to do this when you are not so out of it."

The room glowed in intensity, the whitewash obscuring everything and then fireworks exploded as a laser shot through his left eye. John flinched and moaned.

"Next one, real quick," the man said with a pat on his shoulder.

John almost knocked the stupid penlight out of his hand as the flare of pain shot through his other eye. This time he couldn't hold back a whimpery mewl of pain.

"Okay, done for now."

"I'm lowering the lights, Colonel," Keller hurriedly assured him.

For all the good it would do, the lights came down. Too late. All the 'breathing' in the world wouldn't put a dent in the excruciating headache that took a hold of him. He moaned and didn't care who heard it.

"I'll get Cadence to grab your medication."

John ignored her, struggling to keep things in control. "Wh'ts...wrong...with me?"

"We'll talk about that--"

"Now!" he yelled at Keller, instantly regretting it. "Tell me... now." This time it was a pathetic plea.

"You might have a problem with the nerve function in your brain. I am not sure. I'll need to conduct more tests, perhaps tomorrow," Dr. Pirogov answered for her.

A problem with nerve function. What the hell did that mean?

"Your body has been through a lot, Colonel. A blow to the head can cause a number of problems; many of them do subside over time. The rest of you needs to heal," Keller tried to console, still nervously watching the one machine. "I promise, we're going to work on this together."

He didn't want platitudes, just answers… and the floor to open up and swallow him whole. The two docs might have offered more assurances, but it became a thrum of noise and misery. Pain radiated from the canyon they'd split down his middle and there was an undercurrent of nausea as well, aggravated by the profound pounding in his skull. He ignored their softly spoken goodbyes as they left, heard Keller saying something to the nurse who'd just arrived.

"Time for your pain meds, Colonel."

John smiled briefly at the promise of relief and the nurse's soft honeyed drawl that turned 'time' to 'tahm'. She picked up the IV tubing and injected a syringe into his port.

"You're lookin' pretty pale, sir. Somethin' else botherin' you?"

Perspiration beaded in his hair and he shivered quietly. There was a hint of lilac as hands passed over his face and removed the used cold strip. "Nauseated?" she whispered.

He didn't want to risk moving his head. "Yeah," he answered faintly.

It was horrible how the sickness and pain assailed him, paralyzing him to the bed and making him inert. There were more sounds, machines being adjusted, wheeled stands rolling on the floor, footsteps. Minutes later a blanket was gently draped over him.

"Gave you somethin' to calm your stomach, too. Just hang in there, okay, sir?"

The sickening see-saw of nausea settled down within a warm fuzziness and he let out a sigh of satisfaction and release. Sleepiness accompanied the ebbing of the pain in his chest and the merciful ease of tension in his head.

He could still smell lilac. "You... still... h-here?" he slurred to the air.

"I live in the ICU. Just watchin' your vitals as the meds take effect, sir"

"W-where'd ... you... live before, Lieutenant?"

"Savannah, Georgia."

"On Saint Patrick's Day... they turn... the rivers green."

"Just one, sir. Now the fountains- every one of 'em goes green. You Irish, sir?"

"Mom's side," he confirmed. "You?"

She chuckled and the sound made him smile. "On St Paddy's Day, everyone in Savannah's Irish. Go to sleep, sir."

"Yes, ma'am," he muttered, almost to himself. "And thanks."


	6. Chapter 6 of 22

Sam entered the lab, scanning the various tables of disarray in search of the scientist hidden behind a row of lap tops. A steady aroma billowed from a cup that kept her fingers nice and toasty. She searched in bemusement for a clean spot on the table that wasn't covered by reports, various flash drives or other bits of technology.

Radek was hunched over a keyboard, mumbling to himself and totally oblivious to her presence. She cleared her throat and he sat up, startled. "Oh, Colonel... Um, hello."

"Hey, Radek. I come bearing gifts."

"Thank you. But I don't think I can tolerate any more coffee," he said while eying the cup like an addict.

"That's why it's a strong black tea. Soothing but with plenty of kick."

The scientist accepted the drink, blowing across the rim to cool it. "You must have heard about Teyla's Athosian brew... Um...some of it...is not so good." He took a sip with an appreciative smile. "What brings you down here?"

"I needed to get out of the office, stretch my legs. I wanted an update on a few things," she said, glancing at the mess. "Although, I thought McKay would be around."

Radek rolled his eyes. "This is his work space... very chaotic, but he was earlier, not sure where he ran off to. Rodney's been..." Radek paused, considering his words. "High strung... even for him."

"It has been a very trying few days," Sam replied, lost in thought.

"Yes, it has." He frowned, then pointed at a file folder. "I assigned Dr. Chuki the research on the rain effect on the metal alkaloids of the city. We're trying to determine the rate of erosion and impact to the city if we keep experiencing this amount of rainfall. Once we gather our data on the possible dangers, then we'll try to see if there's some way of neutralizing it."

"Good. The last thing we need to worry about is extreme acid rain."

"Hopefully, it is a minuscule chance. I don't want to have to spray the whole city with chemicals to treat it." The tiny man took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I have made no progress on the computer core. I am sorry."

Her ruse had been obvious.

"Nothing?"

"I went over it myself. Twice. I've handed it over to Dr. Alban to see if he could find anything I missed. Everything was normal, then at 0950 hours Atlantis time it stopped recording data. I cannot find a cause," he sighed, slipping the glasses back on. "It is all in my report."

This wasn't what she wanted to hear; they needed physical evidence-- anything. "Keep me apprised of Dr. Alban's progress. Tell him it's his top priority."

"Of course." He curled his fingers around the cup of tea and stared into the liquid. "There have been a few... rumors, floating around." He looked up. "I hear the engineering team has not found anything to indicate what caused the crash."

"I'm giving them more time; they've only had it a day since the retrieval. Dr. Ryzo has been concentrating on the engine pods so now his team is going to look at the outside sensors."

Dr. Ryzo's team had used every piece of equipment and scan known to man to study the outside fuselage for faulty parts or a sign of mechanical failure without success.

Sam flicked her watch forward on her wrist, noting the time. Her daily databurst to Woolsey was scheduled in less than an hour.

"Thank you for the update, Radek." She turned to leave, stopping a moment. "If you catch anyone speculating about the crash or even about Colonel Sheppard's condition, do you think you could help contain it? I'm sure he would appreciate it."

"Oh, yes, no problem. Most everyone is just concerned... he is very well liked around the city."

"I know he is."

Sam headed to her office empty-handed, passing people in the halls who nodded or smiled at her, none of them realizing the gravity of the situation growing around them.

* * *

The hour she had planned on spending in her office, catching up on her backlog, turned to four when she got stuck dealing with an unforeseen incident at the mining project on MXP-253; their poor engineers really needed a break soon. She was two seconds away from hitting the power button on her computer when a report from Dr. Keller on Sheppard's condition appeared.

She sifted through the test results, making a mental note to research the latest findings on visual field defects in order to feel more competent when dealing with both doctors in the morning.

"Colonel Carter."

She clicked on her com. "Yes, Chuck."

"You have a priority message from Richard Woolsey."

This couldn't be good, she thought. "Patch him through, please."

Unlike the last time, Richard appeared rumpled without his suit jacket and there were fine lines of exhaustion around his eyes. He sat stoically quiet, elbows on his desk and his shirt sleeves rolled up.

"_Colonel Carter."_

"Something tells me that you not bringing good news," she said.

He drummed his pointer finger in a frantic beat on his desk. _"The IOA finished your most recent report. I've gone over it a few times myself."_

She felt her hackles rise. "Yes, well, it's just today's findings. It is far from complete as we have a while before--"

"_--There's no more 'we', Colonel."_

"Excuse me?"

"_As of now, the investigation into the jumper crash has been transferred under IOA jurisdiction. You've been relieved of your duties in the matter."_

It felt as if her legs had been cut out from under her. "It's only been three days since the accident and we've been very thorough--"

"_--Not thorough enough. There is no clear line of inquiry. There have been no theories probed or even seriously examined. In fact--"_

"--Theories?" It was her turn to interrupt him. "There's very little physical evidence to go by; the last I checked, you needed something tangible to build a hypothesis."

"_You have eyewitness testimony from Ms. Emmagan that paints a pretty interesting picture and thus far, there've been no attempts to interview Colonel Sheppard." Woolsey's nostrils flared. "I warned you... told you to buckle down or something like this would happen."_

"Who?" There was no arguing with the bureaucrat; he was just the messenger.

The political exterior cracked a little, the cords in his neck tightened. _"Richard Pratt."_

Sam closed her eyes. "Why him?"

"_He was the IOA's second choice."_

The faint hint of self recrimination got her attention and she glared at him knowingly. "They asked you first?" The normally steadfast hold on her emotions slipped a little. "And you turned it down?"

Why did that feel like a betrayal?

Richard swallowed, gaining his composure. _"I didn't want any part of it."_

It was a curve ball and not at all the excuse she'd expected. "Why not?"

"_The agenda is quite clear and I didn't get to my position without being able to read between the lines... I wouldn't be able to do it. I'm... I'm too partial."_

That didn't make any sense; Woolsey was the IOA's poster and errand boy all wrapped up into one. To admit that he couldn't be counted as an objective player was both touching and confusing until the implication dawned on her.

"They've already made up their minds, haven't they?"

"_Despite what others may think, I have integrity. I'm sorry, Colonel. It's out of my hands; this was a perfect excuse for, shall we say, detractors, to get their hands dirty."_

Politics and the brass was a lethal mix. "Colonel Sheppard has many supporters in the Stargate program and the military. I can't believe they'd allow this."

"_Of course he does...but there are still ruffled feathers over what have been seen as a shoehorned promotion and questionable judgment calls. This is a power play." /iWoolsey rubbed the center of his forehead. "This came at a critical time with Saudi relations. The death is a huge shake up that could cost millions... and before you get that expression, we both know that money is needed to save lives."_

Sam waited, gave the man more time to elaborate.

"_I'm not saying this will be cut and dried. Pratt has a job to do, one he's quite efficient at as you know. He'll investigate every nook and cranny. He'll be part pit-bull and part bloodhound after a scent."_

"Mr. Pratt will not run around here without a leash. He'll conduct himself in a professional manner and I won't allow him to just do as he pleases. He will follow the rules." Sam stood tall. "I won't let any of my people be subjected to a witch hunt."

"_I don't expect anything less from you, Colonel Carter. Just remember who you'll be dealing with. Don't step on Mr. Pratt's toes or he'll stomp back. And his final report will be law."_

* * *

The morning of what John had to be told was the fourth day after the accident dawned little better than the previous one. His headache was still there, a tension in his neck and an ache in his eyes that not even the morphine could fully muffle. Spending twenty-four seven on his back, his head and shoulders supported by piles of pillows wasn't helping; he'd give up every meager possession he had to be able to curl up on his side for just a little while.

Lt. Harrison had already been in for a check of his incision and his various hook-ups, his vitals and his general demeanor. She'd shaken her head at the last one, seemingly unfazed by his growled and grunted answers to her questions but his vision was good enough to see that she'd jotted _something _down on his chart. Probably, _Patient is irritable and uncooperative. _Too fucking bad.

The headache was like Chinese water torture. A steady annoying presence that he swore increased with every heartbeat. Keller had told him, in not so many words, that he may as well shake hands and make friends with it because it wouldn't be going away anytime soon.

In fact, he had a whole boatload of things to deal with and look forward to. Migraines, making this dull ache a proverbial walk in the park. More seizures were possible although she assured him the Clonazepam should help. He could still taste the baby aspirin orange in his mouth from the tablet Lt Harrison had slipped under his tongue.

And his vision. Which despite all the happy crap Keller was feeding him wasn't getting any better. Just trying to focus on his feet at the end of his bed would have him gasping with nausea and the pain from the spike that seemingly rammed through his forehead.

Just when he figured his morning couldn't get any better, he heard an unsubtly cleared throat outside his curtain. The cologne and mothballs hit him before he made out the shadow of the Russian doctor's bushy head cast against the thin fabric.

"Come on in," he answered tiredly, not even bothering the effort of a smiled greeting.

The Russian lumbered into the room, walked up to John's bedside and clapped his hands together. Without so much as a _How are you feeling? _he cocked his head and gave John a long, appraising look. Apparently satisfied, he nodded. "I have tests to try if you are ready?"

"What kind of tests?" John asked cautiously. Moving more than to lift a still really shaky hand to scratch at his heavily stubbled cheek or poke at the nasal cannula set off a series of pains like dominos from his hip through his gut and up into his head.

"Ah, touch your toes, stand on one foot… you know, the usual."

John just stared at the man, finally squinting to try to bring his face into something resembling focused.

After a wait too long for comfort, John finally opened his mouth to protest.

The Russian let out a sound like someone squeezing a football flat. A near silent wheeze was followed by an intake of air that practically lifted the sheets from the bed and Pirogov let loose a deep, rumbly chortle. "Is good joke, no?" He waved massive hands in John's direction. "No, no, Colonel Sheppard. I do tests. You just lay there. Is simple. Promise," he added, still chuckling as he tossed a cigar-sized finger over his heart in a cross.

John closed his eyes and tried to breathe through the adrenaline-fed throbbing in his head. "Good one, doc," he said without feeling. "Very funny," he added in a sarcastic mumble.

Curiosity soon overcame his annoyance, though, as he watched the neurologist pull a device from the pocket of his tweed suit coat. It was similar in dimensions to an LSD but longer than it was tall. He watched as the Russian activated some keys and the instrument hummed to life with a silvery blue glow. John could feel the aura around it as he often could when around everything Ancient. He raised eyebrows and looked up to see the doctor gazing right back.

"Is Ancient," the Russian explained unnecessarily. "Very special scanner. It has been my work for last three years. Helps that when it was found I was only neurologist at University with ATA gene," he added with a broad grin. "Is like scanners you have here in this city - wery beautiful, by the way, your city. But this scanner is designed specifically for brain and vision scans."

Then he held out the device. "You will be first test subject."

John pulled away, wary of untested Ancient equipment with his head so messed up; with his luck he figured he'd wind up with more circuits fried.

"I kid, Colonel, I kid," Pirogov said with another silent chuckle. "Sorry. You are obviously poor subject for my humor. My colleagues are barely patient with me and you are feeling so bad. Come. Please. Take it. I promise it will not harm you."

"Another promise, huh, doc?" John commented dryly as he reached up slowly and took the instrument in his trembling hands. The silvery blue glow brightened and he could feel almost a static charge around the thing.

"Ah. I had heard your gene expression was more… pronounced. This should go like piece of cake for you, then."

John cocked an eyebrow questioningly.

"Is made to interface with the brain. Is scanner and then some. Works best with ATA carriers. So should be wery happy to work with you."

"And I'll be 'wery' happy to let it," John answered as he handed it back.

The Russian smiled warmly at his little joke. "Good. Then we start."

The testing turned out to be very similar to the scans John had already been subjected to from the start. Scans over his head, over his eyes. Lt Harrison came in and helped him sit up while the neurologist passed it over the back of his head for what seemed like an hour. By the time she was easing him back into his pillows he was blowing like a horse at the end of a five mile gallop.

He thought the nurse would leave after helping but she puttered around in the background, jotting things on his chart, checking the monitors, and then just generally sticking around. Pirogov was engrossed in his toy and its readings and seemed unconcerned by her presence.

"Okay, one last test, Colonel, and then we are done, yes?"

"Yes," John answered tiredly.

"Good. Okay, take scanner and look at screen in middle."

"What screen?" John asked as his hands settled on each side of the instrument like holding a portable game player. Then the formally solid material on the front morphed silvery and reflective and there was a display screen in front of him. "Oh," he mumbled dumbly.

"Follow as best you can, Colonel. It responds to your thoughts like the HUD in your jumper."

John thought a vague "on" at the machine and the screen darkened and a single glowy light formed in the middle. The light moved slowly to the left and John squinted and followed it as best he could, back and forth. Eventually the glow split in two and he tried to keep up as each began its own journey across the screen.

He squinted harder, sweat actually forming on his forehead - from watching a freaking light show - and finally gave up with an explosive sigh. He dropped the device onto his lap and pushed his head back into the pillows, huffing and puffing to control the nausea that began to roil in his belly.

He felt the scanner lifted from the bed and heard the Russian making 'hmm-y' noises.

Then a touch on his forehead startled him and he blinked open his eyes to see Lt Harrison standing at his side. She used a soft cloth to wipe down his brow and where the sweat had trickled down into his sideburns. "How you holdin' up, sir?" she asked quietly.

He was still breathing too heavily to answer but he nodded at her and relaxed once more. Finally, the spinning room settled, fixed itself back into place, and he sighed with the relief. Looked over to see Pirogov had finished fiddling with his toy and was watching the nurse's ministrations.

"She takes good care of you, Colonel."

"Yes, yes, she does, doc. So." He swallowed and took another steadying breath. "What's the verdict?"

"Bleed is still there. Is no worse. Buuuuut … better?" The doctor pulled a face and rocked his thumb and pinky in the air. "Meh. Not so much. Maybe a little. Will take time, but it will reduce."

"Isn't there - can't you do anything?"

"Oh, sure. These are hands of concert pianist," Pirogov said, twiddling his long fingers in the air. "I could go in and drain off bleed like that." He snapped loudly. "But then you would lose hair, Colonel," he said with a smile and a pass of his hand over his own wildly bushy mass. Then he sobered. "Dr. Keller is treating it as I would recommend. Conservative. Is best. Opening the brain brings risks no matter how skilled the surgeon, and I am confident that medical treatment is best for you. Slower resolution, maybe, but better in long run, yes?"

John started to shake his head, then stilled as the pain spiked. He leaned forward, sucking in a breath at the burn in his belly. "I'm military commander here, Pirogov. I need - I need to be back on my feet. You have no idea what kind of shit Pegasus throws at this city on a practically daily basis."

"Oh, I have idea, Colonel. And trust me -- trust your Doctor Keller. Given time, this will resolve. If it does not…" He shrugged. "I am here and will fix."

"What the hell's going on with my sight?" John asked bitterly, slumping back in defeat in his bed.

The Russian tapped his long fingers pensively against his lips. "Is cranial nerves. Control centers for different bundles of nerves run through occipital lobe where trauma happened." He illustrated by tapping the back of his own head. "You have nystagmus. Is poor saccade function."

John's face must have shown his lack of comprehension because Pirogov smiled. "Sorry. Too much time spent in University. Your eyes, they do not track the way they should. The nerves are not controlling the movement of your eyes properly."

"So… so I have nerve damage? Is this --" He swallowed as he felt himself go cold. "Is this permanent?"

There were no quick jokes, no hurriedly waved hands disputing how ridiculous the question was. Instead the Russian's fingers returned to his mouth and he looked off into the corner as if seriously pondering. His eyes were steady though when they returned to meet John's.

"I think nerves are just annoyed -- no - not annoyed … ahhh, irritated. Yes, irritated. Is probably bleed, putting pressure on the nerves."

"Probably?"

"Almost definitely, Colonel. In meantime, is like vicious circle, yes?" he asked, twirling his finger in the air. "Double vision and loss of visual field make you squint, cause pain. These increase blood pressure which increases pressure on nerves. We need to relieve you of use of your eyes for a while, I think. Let the swelling continue to abate."

"Relieve me of the use of my eyes? I --"

"Nothing so dramatic, Colonel. Dark shades, perhaps." He turned to Lt Harrison who John suddenly realized still stood nearby. "You must keep lighting low in here except for during medical procedures."

The nurse nodded. "Of course, Doctor."

"Good. And for you," he said, returning to John, "no reading, no computer, no DVD movies. You will be bored. Try music. I like Prokofiev. Mussorgsky is good too."

He slipped the device back into his pocket and drew a hand over his beard. "You will have headaches, Colonel. Migraines most probably. And seizures may continue, although they should taper off."

"Yeah, Keller already gave me the rundown of all the fun to be had."

The neurologist nodded thoughtfully. "You are on Clonazepam?"

"If that's the orange tablet, yeah," John said, moving his tongue in his mouth with a disgusted look.

Pirogov smiled. "I have heard they taste like _govno." _

John's answering smile was quick, almost reflexive.

"Ah, you speak Russian, Colonel?"

John shook his head cautiously. "It's almost the same in Czech and once you hear it a few dozen times a day…"

"Ah. Well then. I take my leave of you. I need to give Dr Keller my results. Delightful woman. Very bright for so young. My dear Lieutenant," he said, nodding formally at Harrison, and then at John. "Colonel. Feel better. We will get you right as the rain soon." And in a puff of mothballs he was gone.

Harrison began adjusting John's pillows and then reached up and dimmed the light over his bed to a warm amber glow. She reached into the pocket of her uniform and pulled out a rubber capped syringe. "Dr. Keller predicted you'd be feelin' crappy after the tests so she okayed a top off," she explained at John's inquiring look.

"Dr. Keller's a damn good psychic, Lieutenant," he muttered as he felt the coolness run into his vein. "Get her a pack of tarot cards…"

"Can I get you anythin', Colonel?"

He licked his lips and checked out the bedside tray. The plastic pitcher of water was missing. "Yeah, could I get some water?"

"Sorry, sir," she replied regretfully. "No water before surgery."

"Surgery?" he asked blankly.

"Yes, sir." She chewed on her lip and paused. "Dr Keller told you she needs to go back in to finish your liver repair. They left gauze wrapped around the organ to support it while it knitted back together."

John closed his eyes and took a long breath before speaking. "I had forgotten," he finally answered simply.

A warm hand rested on his arm but he didn't bother opening his eyes. "It's much easier this time, sir. Nothin' like the first time. You'll be back out before you know it."

She was silent, probably waiting for him to say something, but it was a struggle just to control the emotions overwhelming him. Just the thought of them ripping him back open, cutting into his already raw, barely healing belly. The nausea from the anesthesia that plagued him for hours after surgery…

"I'll be right outside if you need anythin', sir."

He heard her footsteps leaving. "When?"

"In an hour or so, sir. Should I send Dr. Keller in? Do you have any questions for her?"

"No," he answered quietly. "Thank you, Lieutenant."

"No problem, sir. Rest up. I'll be in to prep you in a little bit. I'll even give you a cleanup and a shave while I have everythin' out. Maybe that'll make you feel a little better?"

"Maybe," he mumbled. But he knew it wouldn't.

* * *

"John?"

She waited a bit for a response then turned to look up at the nurse who had pushed her wheelchair. "Are you sure this is a good time?"

Sandy tossed a questioning look at where Cadence was restocking supplies nearby; the lieutenant nodded and gestured it was okay to go in with a smile.

Teyla held the curtain aside and peeked in.

The curtained off room was dim, lit only by a small lamp that cast a muted amber glow. The expected equipment stood sentry along the one curtain, covered in the cryptic jagged lines and numbers that told the doctors so much and everyone else so little. At first glance, though, something appeared different. It took a moment to realize that the four days of heavy beard that had darkened and aged John's face was gone. His cheeks were pale, all their usual rosiness gone, hollows and shadows taking its place.

John's eyes were closed but he did not look asleep or even relaxed. His hands, those hands so steady in use on computers and ship controls or holding a bead with his P-90, were trembling, fidgeting with the blanket that covered him to the waist.

"John?" she tried again.

This time she was rewarded with his head turning on his pillow towards her voice. "Hey, Teyla," he said softly, his eyes remaining closed.

"I wished to see how you were doing, John. May I come in?"

"No formalities necessary, Teyla," he said with an attempt at a smile that merely looked sickly. His voice was slurred and she recognized the effect of heavy painkillers or a sedative. "C'mon in - more the merrier."

She allowed Sandy to push her up to the bedside and set the brakes then smiled up at the nurse in gratitude.

"No problem," Sandy said quietly. "Not too long, though. I'll be back to get you in a few minutes."

Once the nurse had left the area Teyla stood gingerly from the chair, her slippered feet quiet on the tiled floor. Her arm had been wrapped inches thick in gauze and pinky-grey fabric bandages to protect the hardware and incision underneath and was held close to her chest in a white sling. Its bulk made movement awkward but she stood on tiptoe and leaned over to place her forehead gently atop John's.

The corners of his mouth curled up and he sighed. "Back at ya, kiddo." He tilted his head slowly and opened his eyes with obvious effort. His lids fluttered and then he squinted.

Her breath caught in her throat as he gazed at her; it seemed as if there was no recognition in his face. Then his eyes widened and she saw he was just staring at her heavily bandaged arm.

"Oh, Teyla," he breathed. "Your arm…"

"It has been repaired, John," she said with a gentle smile. "Dr Keller assures me that I will gain full use of it. She and the staff have taken very good care of me."

He reached a shaky hand out and brushed just the very tips of his fingers over the fabric of the sling. "The accident…"

She nodded and eased herself slowly back into the wheelchair. John's eyes widened once more as he took in her use of it and she quickly smiled. "I believe they are merely being… solicitous. I am better every day, John, and Dr. Keller has said she will be releasing me soon. Maybe even tomorrow."

"The baby?"

"He is fine, John. Please. Do not waste valuable energy on anything but getting better yourself. I believe I will find forced relaxation… less than relaxing," she said with a smirk. "I will welcome your company while we are both recuperating."

"You got a bit of a head start on me," he said with a sigh. He eased back and closed his eyes. "Probably be beating up on Marines before I'm even back to my quarters."

Fully aware that the staff still considered his condition very tenuous, even if she wasn't exactly sure why, she didn't offer platitudes in response.

"If you are considering this a race, John, then I feel I should warn you. I was long considered the fleetest of foot back on Athos," she said with a grin. "In a flat out dash I believe I would leave you in the dust kicked up."

The small joke was enough for him to cough out a chuckle. "I know a challenge when I hear one. You're on. You and me, the mainland, high noon. Rodney can hold the baby."

"Perhaps we could find a better minder for my son," she teased back. "I believe even Ronon would be a better choice although neither strikes me as particularly… maternal."

A smile lingered on John's face and it warmed her heart.

"Kinda nice, thinking about the baby. Will be good to have a kid around here," John mused. "New beginnings… new life."

He opened his eyes, rising a little from his pillows, and studied Teyla for a moment. "This baby is very important to me, I hope you know that."

She reached over and took his hand, sobered by the serious look on his face. "Of course, John. Why--"

"I don't know what I would do," he continued, "if something happened to you or to him." The effort of sitting up was already too much and he collapsed back, closing his eyes once more and rubbing roughly at the bridge of his nose before dropping his hand back to his side.

Stroking his hand with her thumb, she leaned closer to the bed and lowered her voice. "Nothing has happened to me that is not already being fixed. My child is fine, John. Your concern should be directed only at getting your strength back."

It was as if he hadn't heard her. She watched as his fingers began tentatively tracing the borders of the bandages on his abdomen. His brow furrowed as they brushed over areas still tender but didn't stop his exploration.

"This could have been you," he finally said in a voice so quiet she almost missed it.

Her heart dropped into her stomach at the mere thought of the devastation that would have been wrought had she experienced the same injuries as John.

"But it was not," she replied, as firmly as she could manage.

"I don't even know why the hell I had you on a mission in the first place," he continued as if talking to himself.

"It was not a mission, John," she started, then realized that once on this road only more questions would come. "It was… a social call. We attended a dinner at Tellen and Mina's home."

She waited for the inevitable follow up questions since he still had yet to ask exactly what kind of accident it was but instead it became apparent that her response was something he wasn't expecting. He opened his eyes once more and there was relief mixed with the pain and the drugs. "Dinner?"

"Yes, John," she confirmed with a comforting smile and a squeeze of his hand. "Dinner only. It was my request to see them and share with them my good news," she added; a white lie only as she did consider them friends and had been happy to have their planet chosen for the prince's visit.

John visibly relaxed, some of the lines around his eyes smoothing out, and he even managed a half smile. "Dinner. Was it good? They always put out a great spread."

"You ate more than your share. There was even a young lady there that seemed to catch your eye."

"Figgers I can't remember that," he sighed. "Keller told me I probably won't get much if anything back from that day. Guess my head isn't as hard as my old man always told me it was," he added. A scowl passed over his face like a dark cloud blotting out the sun, there and gone as quickly as it came.

Before Teyla could come up with something to reassure or redirect the conversation back to lighter subjects there was the sound of the curtain being pushed aside.

Lt Harrison entered quietly, a rubber-capped syringe in her hand. She smiled warmly at Teyla then approached the side of the bed and made some adjustments to the various monitors before turning and placing her hand on John's shoulder.

"They're just about ready for you, sir," she said softly.

He didn't open his eyes to acknowledge her presence but his mouth narrowed and his lips went white with tension. He nodded shortly and she patted him gently then picked up his IV line and, with practiced ease, dispensed the contents of the syringe.

She then picked up his wrist and the room was quiet as she read his pulse. "Guess I shouldn't be surprised it's a little fast," she murmured to him as she let his arm rest back on the bed. "What I gave you should help with that, sir. Not too much longer now. Ms. Emmagan can stay until they come if you'd like."

Another nod got him another pat on his shoulder and the nurse looked at Teyla as she left the room with a face that clearly read regret.

"John? What is it? Is it more tests?"

He sighed and chewed on a lip. "Wish that's all it was. Gotta go back in. Surgery."

"Is there - is there something wrong?" Teyla asked with growing dread. She had felt certain that the staff had been keeping her up to date but began to fear that they had kept this from her.

"Dunno. They say they gotta finish up or something… it's just… weird. Knowing. Waiting. First time I wasn't really around for it, you know?"

"Oh, John," she said quietly, grabbing tighter to his hand. "I am sure Dr Keller will take very good care of you."

"Yeah," he murmured, his voice now almost a breath. His breathing had slowed and Teyla realized that the nurse had given him something to prepare him for the surgery.

"I will stay, John, if you wish. And I will be here when you get out again. This is just another part of your journey to recovery."

She felt his hand grip hers for the first time since she'd taken it. And they remained that way, two friends, clinging to each other's comfort until the surgical team arrived with a gurney to take him away.


	7. Chapter 7 of 22

Hacking into personnel files shouldn't be this easy. The SGC paid what were supposedly the brightest around to program their security systems but Rodney could have cracked this back in middle school. He'd bet a week's pay that his niece, Madison, would be able to breach the substandard barriers- once she learned how to use the computer.

The challenge was reading what was between the lines of endless crap.

"Hey, Carter's looking for you."

Rodney yelped, slammed closed his laptop and lost two of his lives. "Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

Ronon didn't react to his outburst.

Oh, of all the moronic..."Is there something else because I'm busy doing something here." He flipped open his computer and began scanning the files again. A moment later he realized Conan hadn't budged and looked up with a loud sigh. "You delivered your message, now shoo."

"She wanted me to make sure you showed up on time."

"Who?"

"Carter."

Rodney tried not to laugh. "Since when do you do everything she says?" he muttered, shaking his head and trying to go back to the computer.

A large shadow blocked his light. "What?" he snapped testily.

The Satedan just raised an eyebrow.

"Fine. I'm digging up dirt on the IOA stooge that's coming. I like to know who I'll be up against."

"Doing reconnaissance on the enemy is a good idea."

"Well, he's not really the... I mean... um, yeah." Ronon waited expectantly. "Okay, but you didn't hear this from me."

"Just spill it."

"Richard Pratt has a nice long history, chewing people up and spitting them out. He helped start Blackstone Aerospace." Rodney glanced up and sighed at the prospect of explaining avionics. "It's an Earth company that manufactured very sophisticated engines for military and commercial use."

"Yeah?"

"Their products are used by every major aircraft on Earth and their breakthroughs on power consumption generated billion dollar defense contracts, including stuff for the Space program. Um... anyways, Pratt helped create an empire, not to mention--"

"--McKay."

"Hey! You're the one who said knowing the enemy was important. Well, this stuff is!" Rodney defended. "I know you like to shoot things, but we can't shoot this guy." Once again he found himself amending his words. "Really... we can't."

He cleared his throat. "Fine, we'll do the Coles Notes version," he huffed, not bothering to explain what that meant. "Pratt branched off and began another company dealing with experimental weaponry. Suffice it to say, the SCG was one of his contracts. Blah, blah, blah, he got greased through the system."

"Some weapons dealer is coming to investigate Sheppard?" Ronon asked in that 'I have no clue what you're talking' about tone.

Rodney really didn't want to deal with pre-school today. "Technology companies are cut-throat, something you know a little about... Anyways, there's a lot of competition in that field and Pratt was ruthless with his business dealings. He went after other companies over the slightest patent infringements and even gained attention for reporting on the misuse of government funds that he uncovered during one of his hostile takeovers."

Ronon's eyes had that dead look in them and Rodney thought having some basic courses on Earth matters would help in matters like these. "The SCG thought his tough business tactics could be useful. They got their hooks into him and now he's their attack dog, so to speak."

"So, he's a smart asshole. Kind of like--"

"--Don't you dare."

"Sounds like another big brain. And he's going to be here any minute."

"Fine, fine," Rodney said, packing away his stuff and powering down his computer.

He began walking down the hall towards the control room when Ronon headed in the opposite direction. "Hey. Where are you going?"

The big man shrugged. "Carter told me not to be there when he showed up."

"Good idea. Might not be cool if you killed him."

"Who says I won't later?"

He stared at Ronon's retreating form, thinking it might not be that far from the truth.

* * *

Rodney wasn't always late, despite what certain pilots said about his attendance record. His stuff was important and it wasn't like he had some lowly major to pawn off all his paperwork on. Not to mention that his sixteen-hour work day entailed things that could blow up half the city. There was no way he could just leave calculations or experiments to his underlings; tardiness was to be expected.

The tour of the control room was already in progress. Sam was all smiles, pointing out various areas to their latest visitor. He flew up the steps, slowing his pace once he hit the platform and put on his best, 'I'm not impressed' expression upon reaching the duo.

"Ah, there you are. Richard Pratt, this is Dr. Rodney McKay," the colonel said, introducing them.

Pratt smiled with bleached white teeth, rows of sparkling pearls to go with his customized suit. Rodney had been forced to read enough copies of GQ on the Midway Station to actually recognize the David Chu design. The dark charcoal bespoke jacket, white shirt and power tie easily cost more than his monthly paycheck.

Rodney stuffed his hands in his pockets, smug face in place. "Hmmm, thought you'd be taller."

"And I expected someone younger." Pratt dropped his offered hand. "Funny, you don't look crazed or insane. But we all know how people tend to exaggerate."

"Oh, I don't know. Geniuses are always misunderstood by the intellectually challenged. I won't hold that against you."

Pratt chuckled and Rodney was assaulted by a whiff of mint mouthwash. He wondered if the man went to one of those spas to put the silver highlights in his dark hair just to be more distinguished looking. The bureaucrat was the spitting image of an evil version of George Clooney.

"I enjoyed reading your latest nanite research and theories. It's leaps and bounds above anything being developed on Earth."

"I'm impressed you got past the conjugate and modulus complexes of the equations," Rodney grinned back, ignoring Sam's growing agitation.

"It would indeed be impressive, since it took a Wraith to help you get past it yourself, but then again... that's why summaries are so darn useful in reports."

Rodney felt the heat rise in his cheeks as he prepped the next verbal missile for the tip of his tongue. But that's what the jerk wanted. The man was a hawk, ready to swoop down and devour his prey. Rodney felt his body tense and every ounce of concentration was aimed at not going off on one of his usual tirades.

Sam stepped closer to prevent a confrontation. "If you two are done...," she said, looking at both of them like they were unruly children. "I think Mr. Pratt would like to be shown his temporary quarters to freshen up and--"

"--Actually I want to see the jumper with my own two eyes. Perhaps Dr. Zelenka could do me the honors of the escort. Then I'll begin conducting my interviews later on. Beginning with Dr. McKay."

"Of course. Everyone here will cooperate fully. But let me remind you, Mr. Pratt, this is a base, and all my people have jobs," Sam interjected.

"Why of course."

"Then you'll be sure to give me a list of people you want to interview beforehand," Sam explained, holding up a finger to hold off any retorts. "Our people have work to do. I'll arrange the times that are best for everyone."

Pratt picked up the leather briefcase that rested next to his feet. "We'll do it your way... for now." The man directed his gaze at Rodney. "I'll set up in the conference room in, let's say, an hour. Is your calendar free for that time?"

Rodney snorted. "Well, actually I have--"

"...Then it's all set. Now, Colonel, I have a map of the base, but if Dr. Zelenka is available?"

_Count to ten, count to ten. _

Rodney didn't realize his hands were shaking until the condescending voice walked away. He opened his eyes to find some of the techs staring at him. "Don't you all have work to do?!"

* * *

I have two doctorates, two! What does he have...what a Master's, maybe? I've got countless published articles and the books... the books," Rodney mumbled under his breath. "I've saved the city, how many times?"

He paced, working himself into a lather, annoyed that a guy who ruled from some corner office could even ding on his radar to the point he'd begun talking to himself. He checked his watch for the tenth time just as the subject of his annoyance walked through the door.

Pratt went to the center of the table without even a simple hello, set his attaché case down and began pulling things out of it, a small electronic device among them. "Why don't you take a seat, Dr. McKay? The recorder can't pick up your voice if you're behaving like a lion in a zoo."

"You know what they say about poking sticks inside their cages," Rodney grumbled, grabbing a chair.

Pratt pulled out a black Mont Blanc pen and a pad of legal paper, balancing both on his crossed knee. He pierced Rodney with a set of steel blue eyes. "Would you consider yourself an authority on jumper technology?"

Rodney tried to avoid fidgeting. _Calm. Remain calm_. "Yes, I am."

"And besides you, Dr. Zelenka and Dr. Ryzo--

"Who?"

"Don't you know the name of one of your top engineers?"

"Of course I do...the one with...um... He's Chinese."

"Japanese, Dr. McKay. Could there be anyone else on base that might be more knowledgeable?"

"No, of course not," Rodney scoffed, twisting in the chair.

"No one at all?"

"No one. In fact Zelenka and I are... well, I've been making the hyperdrive modifications to it," Rodney boasted.

"When the three foremost experts on Ancient jumpers can't show me a single mechanical or internal error that would cause it to fall out of the sky, would you conclude that there might not be one?"

When there was no response, Pratt began tapping his expensive pen on his knee. "Dr. McKay?"

"No, I wouldn't say that. We've only had it for--"

"—Please keep your answers concise."

"No, I won't. There's a difference between not knowing the cause and there not being one," Rodney growled. His foot began vibrating with restless energy while Pratt's stony expression never changed. "I'm sure with enough time we'll find a reason. There was an unexplained power drop--"

"--You'll look for a reason even if there is no evidence with which to back your claim?"

Rodney was not enjoying being the interruptee instead of his usual role as interrupter. "Yes, that's what science is all about."

The investigator scribbled on his pad without glancing up. "Do you think a massive storm front with dangerous wind gusts, electrical charges and violent turbulence could be a reason for the crash?"

"No," Rodney said, crossing his arms.

"Why not?"

"There's no physical evidence to support that theory."

Pratt grinned, his face looking very contrite. "The crushed front end and sheared right side not enough for you?"

"That's a result from the crash. I thought they still taught the whole cause and effect thing in primary school. Sorry if it's too complicated to understand. Would you like me to draw a picture instead?" Rodney's voice dripped in sarcasm.

"So, if there's nothing to back up a theory, then it shouldn't be considered?" Pratt relaxed into his chair.

"Yes... I mean... no... wait!" Rodney considered the argument and how Pratt was trying to twist his own belief that there could be another reason for the crash. He wagged his finger. "I'm not falling for your lawyer tricks."

"I'm not a lawyer, but I see this line of questioning is a tad bit challenging for you. I'll switch to something you know more about... Tell me. Would you say that Mr. Sheppard is a very loyal person?"

"Colonel," Rodney, seethed.

That got the suit's attention. "Excuse me?"

"He has a rank. It's Colonel Sheppard," Rodney said, lifting his chin.

"Of course, how nice that the civilians respect their military counterparts," Pratt smiled disingenuously. "But, in your opinion, do you believe his loyalty to this city is--"

"Are you serious?" Rodney launched to his feet, unable to sit any longer. "Have you read his service record? Do you know how many times he's saved everyone? Sheppard might be military but he's smart... his ideas rival some of my own in sheer genius. Not to mention the number of times he's led near suicide runs to make sure--"

"--Yes, yes. Impressive." Pratt held out his hand. "Would you please sit back down?"

Rodney was at the far end of the conference table, in full rant mode, his heart trying to batter its way out of his chest. He spun on his heel, cracked his neck and slid into his chair after wiping away beads of perspiration. This felt like an interrogation; he was sure Pratt had come in earlier and increased the intensity of the lighting, screwed with the thermostat and purposely kept away any water.

"Suffice it to say that Colonel Sheppard's top priority is the safety of Atlantis?"

"Yes."

"He's hands-on involved with every new protocol, even tweaking security SOPs and having an input with the science department on defense concerns?"

"I don't know anything about the colonel and his soldier thing. He's the best pilot we have and like I said, he has a real I.Q. Yeah, he pesters me in the lab sometimes. Sheppard's even been giving me a hand with the jumper modifications. Having a small craft with the ability to go into hyperspace would be very beneficial for reconnaissance, or rescue missions, not to mention--"

"--I'm sure the set backs have been frustrating... I mean, having such capabilities might have helped a few weeks ago when one of the off world teams was trapped on PX1-321. The gate wasn't operational and--"

"--Yes, yes it would have! That's why we've been so excited about the fact that it's almost done! We were even at the final stages of testing," he grumbled. Stupid crash.

"It's that important a deal around here?"

"Maybe we should have field guides readied for the IOA before they come here. The answer is, yes. Jumpers that can go fast would be very good. Simple enough?"

"Crystal clear." Pratt rummaged through his briefcase, thumbing through manila folders with the words 'classified' stamped in red letters. "Ah, here we go. And Colonel Sheppard is also a diligent team leader, very protective of his members?"

Rodney resisted the next barb. Only bureaucrats still used paper; shouldn't the most classified agency in the world stick to flash drives?

"Yes, Sheppard's very protective. He actually goes out in the field. I've seen enough war movies to know the more stripes you have on your sleeve, the more you usually stay behind a desk."

This earned a flash of Pratt's veneers. "Over the years, wars have become more sophisticated. They can be directed from a long-distance, unlike here in Pegasus. Colonel Sheppard seems very protective of his team; in fact he's gone beyond the call of duty for all of you. Searched half the galaxy for Ronon Dex when he was captured by the Wraith. And, oh yes, all that unpleasantness when your sister was kidnapped...I mean to allow a Wraith into Stargate command. Let's not forget the whole unexpected death of Henry Wallace."

Rodney rocketed back to his feet. "This has nothing to do with Jeannie! In fact... I find this whole line of questioning to have no relevance whatsoever to a jumper crash!"

"Sit down, Doctor."

Rodney didn't even realize he was looming over the other man, his now fully heated and flushed face inches from Pratt's almost serene calmness.

"I was just wondering why the colonel would allow Ms. Emmagan to go off-world with him, considering he had her taken off his team because of her pregnancy. I mean, the risks involved in such missions are--"

"--Oh, please! The mission was a cakewalk. There was nothing to worry about, Sheppard should have been--"

"--Back here. Working on important things, like jumper modifications," Pratt finished for him.

Rodney blinked, startled. "What? No, I mean..."

"I know exactly what you mean, Dr. McKay," Pratt explained with a satisfied grin. He began screwing the top back on his pen. "In fact, that's all I needed from you for today."

"No, wait. You twisted everything up," Rodney stammered, feeling sick to his stomach.

Pratt turned off all his equipment and began piling it inside his fancy attaché. "I thank you for your time. I know you must have some vital experiment to attend to."

"I know what you're up to. There's a reason why the jumper crashed and I'll find the answer."

Pratt walked out from behind the table, his suit still in a state of perfection as he adjusted his tie. It was stifling in here and the man was perfectly at ease. "We're after the same thing, Dr. McKay. Answers. But don't worry, that's my job... not yours. I'm sure the colonel will be able to shed some light onto this. After all, he was the pilot."

There was no way Rodney would allow this jerk anywhere near Sheppard. "I think it's up to the colonel's physician to decide if you'll be allowed to talk to him. He's a victim and the man has the right to recover without being attacked like he's some type of criminal," Rodney seethed, stepping in front of Pratt to block his way.

For the first time, Pratt's eyes flickered with something wild, dangerous. He gripped his briefcase tighter, spoke in a cold whisper. "There was another victim here. A person died, or did you forget? The prince may have been an unpleasant man, but he had a family. My job is to find out why a simple mission, headed by the military commander of Atlantis, ended so disastrously... And nothing will stand in my way."

* * *

Just as the first time, the smell was what he noticed first. It didn't matter how advanced the Atlantis infirmary was, didn't matter that they had Ancient scanners, machines that could break down an individual's DNA down to the very genome, and stasis pods capable of keeping people alive for 10,000 years. When it came down to it, modern medicine was still very hands on. And messy. Hence the smell of bleach and other disinfecting agents the staff used that assaulted Rodney's nose.

Underneath it all ran the sharp tang of isopropyl alcohol and, of course, that damn iodine. And as strong as the bleach smell was, it didn't completely cover the lingering smell of what he realized with dismay was the unfortunate result of anesthesia combined with head trauma.

Hovering outside the curtain he saw the forms of three people bustling about the small area. About to turn on his heel and flee back to his lab, Jennifer Keller emerged, followed like little ducklings with their mama by her nurses, one bearing a plastic washup bin and the other an armful of sheets.

Still half poised to leave, he instead forced a game smile on his face as Keller veered from her path and headed his way.

She pulled a stethoscope from around her neck and folded it in two, shoving it into the pocket of her white coat. "You a visitor or a patient, Rodney?"

"A vi - Why? - do I look like I need medical attention? I know I'm pale but I've been spending more time than usual in the jumper bay and it has that god awful fluorescent lighting --"

"Just kidding, Rodney," she said and he sighed as he saw the teasing smile on her face. "I know you're here to see Colonel Sheppard."

She stepped closer and rose to her tiptoes, narrowing her eyes as she fixed her gaze on him. "Although, that throbbing vein in your temple makes me think I should check your blood pressure."

"My blo -" His hand rose involuntarily before he could snatch it back down. "Oh. Just came from a meeting. I think IOA must stand for Insipid Obnoxious Ass and this guy's a paradigmatic example of it. You know, maybe I _should _go lay down, I mean, I don't want a CVA or something…"

Keller didn't manage to get her hand up in time to hide her amusement. "Relax, Rodney. And breathe."

"Yeah, about that, the breathing… it's kinda - I mean -- the uh", and he waved his hand in the direction of Sheppard's room. "I've brought something, which I suppose can wait, because I'm not sure he'll even really want a visitor if he's- you know."

Her lips narrowed and she folded her arms across her chest. "I know the smell of vomit is displeasing but I can assure you it has been completely cleaned up and I would hate to think that would be enough to keep you away when he could really use your company."

Rodney went cold, head to toes, and at the same time he felt warmth rush to his face. He leaned over, lowered his voice and used the same tone he inflicted on those underlings in his lab unfortunate enough to have screwed up or worse, interrupted him.

"I will have you know that I sat by that man's bedside for _weeks_ while he shed blue scales and had to be put in a medically induced coma when the pain got so bad. I've heard him scream with such agony that I can _still_ hear it if I try - and I don't - try- I try not to - while the ugliest bug in two galaxies sucked the life from him. Do I have to remind you that I let that man into my _dreams?"_ He shivered involuntarily at the memory. "I was operating under the belief that _he _wouldn't appreciate me being around while his stomach turned inside out. He's weird that way."

By the time he was done with his tirade he had Keller bending almost backwards. A small spot of spittle dotted the top of her cheek.

He waited to see if she would react the way most of the targets of his fury did, crying and storming off being the most popular choices.

Mentally notching her a point higher in his estimation but not revealing he was impressed, he waited as Keller calmly took a step back. The restraint necessary to leave the souvenir on her cheek was also admirable.

"Perhaps I rushed to judgment," she allowed. "He's doing better. I think we can chalk that last time up to an ill-advised attempt at getting him to eat something. A rush to Jello, as it were." The corner of her mouth quirked up in a twitch. "I gave him a stronger anti-emetic so it'll make him a little groggy."

"Since when isn't he groggy?" Rodney observed, rocking back on his feet and granting her a little more personal space.

"Head trauma and heavy meds'll do that to you", she answered with a wistful smile.

"Yes, well. You really think - I'll--" he waved a hand in Sheppard's direction "- just pop in and see if he wants company."

Keller just nodded and turned away to head to her office. As she rounded the corner Rodney saw her raise a hand to wipe her cheek. And he felt kind of badly about it.

* * *

There was nothing to knock on and the whole idea of a room constructed of fabric was ridiculous anyways so Rodney just poked his head through the opening and, assured that the coast was clear as far as Sheppard not being sick or exposing something, he sauntered on through and stood at the man's bedside. Crossing his hands at the small of his back he waited to be acknowledged, a small, hated, part of him hoping that the closed eyes meant he could just drop off his delivery and leave.

The whole hospital visitation thing was, of course, something that no one _liked._ But Rodney _hated _it. The aforementioned smells were just the start. Long days spent as a child forced to visit a grandmother he barely knew as a person and not as a headscarf-wearing shell of a woman, burdened by tubes and incoherent on morphine had instilled it in him. It was a great uncle next and when his father had gone in for appendicitis, seven year old Rodney had been inconsolable, convinced that people who went into hospital never came home.

He'd had a fingernail literally ripped off as he clung to his bedpost when a relative tried to get him into the car for a visit. Jeannie had burst into tears, not knowing why really, just because her brother was. Not one of their treasured family memories… not that they had many.

After giving a very generous several seconds in waiting he half turned, as if to leave, then patted at the pocket of his jacket.

"I'm awake, Rodney."

"Oh. Yes. I guess you are. If you aren't up to talking I could just --"

Sheppard opened his eyes and blinked blearily at him. "No."

"No, you're not up to talking?"

"No … no, I am. I…" Sheppard sighed and squinted at him. "You can stay, Rodney."

"Oh."

There was a long, stupidly awkward pause. Then Sheppard sighed. "You can si'down, Rodney."

"Oh."

Glad for something to do, even if it was only finding the chair pushed way off in a corner and dragging it to the bedside, Rodney hurriedly completed his task and plopped himself down. And then there was another pause.

Sheppard had closed his eyes back down and while Rodney knew why - had been given most of the details from Keller and then had hacked into the med records for the rest - it was still… disconcerting, trying to hold a conversation with someone not looking back at him.

"So. Keller tells me you shouldn't be puk- that you would be feeling better. Do you?"

"Not really." But there was a hint of a smile.

"Oh. Well, she seemed pretty confident."

"I'll bear that in mind, Rodney. I'm ever the optimist." He took a long, deep drag of oxygen in through the cannula under his nose and held it, letting it out slowly before swallowing.

Rodney blinked, freezing in place. It was obvious that Sheppard was striving mightily against his nausea. When nothing… disturbing was forthcoming Rodney stuttered to reply. "Yes, yes, I suppose you are, which is probably just as well since it's been observed that I tend to be a bit of a pessimist and if we were both like that … that would be bad," he ended lamely.

"Very bad. How's everybody doing?" Another deep, shuddering breath and exhale.

"Good. Good. I mean, Teyla's arm still looks like the Borg got a hold of her but Keller actually let her go today. Ronon is - well, who the hell knows, truthfully - not a big talker that one. Sam's … she's doing her thing, I suppose. Where do you want me to go with your 'everybody'? Radek is still a perpetual thorn in my side, Lorne is tearing out his hair playing leader in your absence and I heard Chuck won a boatload on the Super Bowl."

"I'd say that covers everybody. Thanks. Noticed you left out you."

"Oh. Well. Things are pretty normal. Spend my days in my lab berating and belittling my flunkies, arguing with Radek. Avoiding Katie."

Sheppard's brow wrinkled with confusion. "Why're you avoiding her? Thought it was mutual?"

"Hm. It was. I think we mutually agreed that my timing sucks. And that I'm not husband material. Or boyfriend material either, apparently. So - I met your 'specialist', Pirogov. He's… well, far be it for this pot to call the kettle odd but he's definitely out there. And he has an odor…"

"Mothballs."

"Ah. Naphthalene," Rodney said with the smile of enlightenment. "Thank you. It's been bothering me for a while."

"Don't mention it."

"That's pretty cool, your senses already kicking up a notch or two. Like Daredevil."

"Not wearing a red vinyl suit."

"Actually, I think it was leather. At least it's supposed to be leather- I have no idea what they stuck Ben Affleck in. Now Jennifer Garner…"

He looked over to share a smile over their well established lust for the actress but Sheppard's concentration was clearly not on picturing the sai-wielding brunette. His face, which had already been the pale that only illness can bring, was now waxen and coated with a light sheen of perspiration. His hands were in white-knuckled fists at his sides and his breath was loud through pursed lips.

Rodney half-rose from his chair, poised to do what he wasn't sure. Run away, go get someone, offer help no matter how improbable- no, ludicrous- the idea that anything he could do would help.

"Are you --? Do you -- ?"

Sheppard sighed and relaxed a little. "No. No, was just-- that was bad. Think -- think I got it now."

"Keller told me you wouldn't be p- that you'd be feeling better. That's what I get for listening to the little voodoo priestess."

"'sokay, Rodney. I am doing better. You shoulda seen me a few hours ago."

"And here I am, prattling on about comic book superheroes."

Sheppard opened his eyes and turned his head on his pillow to squint at Rodney with as close an approximation to his usual finely tuned glare as he could muster.

He took in a deep breath. "Day five in this bed and while I'll grant you I wasn't around much for the better part of the front half, I've had little more than questions about my pain level, explanations of the dozens of tests they've put me through and small talk about the weather."

He struggled through another inhale then sighed and shut his eyes, sagging back against the stack of pillows. "I could use a little normalcy, Rodney. And normal is you, prattling."

"Oh. Well." Rodney shrugged. "When you put it that way. But you'll tell me to shut up when you get tired of listening to it, right?"

"Don't I always?"

"Huh. I suppose you do." He sat back in his chair and relaxed a little. "So, I was talking about Pirogov. I, uh, called some of my contacts from my days in Russia. Found someone who would actually still talk to me, surprisingly. Although he was a little curt. Anyway, he basically said that Pirogov is a bit of a whack job but seems to know his stuff. He was a neurosurgeon at _Devichye Pole_. It's the hospital affiliated with the Russian State Medical University. A few years ago he was given some goodies from the Stargate program and he turned his efforts to real science. Guess he's made some real discoveries- I'd love to see what kind of tech he got."

"Saw some of it. Used it on me. It _was _pretty cool."

"Really?"

"Bet if you asked nicely he'd let you play with it."

"Really?"

"No. He's one of you, Rodney. You guys never wanna share your toys."

"Hmm. I do seem to remember something to that effect on a few grammar school report cards. _Meredith is extremely bright but tends to be loquacious and has difficulty in group activities. _What kind of school only has one Erector set anyways? And not even a single motor. I turned out well in spite of my education. I told my parents I wanted a Montessori school -- but uh, so, you got to try them out. Did they do anything?"

"Just confirmed my head's as frakked up as I already knew it was. He's decided to take a 'conservative' approach." Sheppard sighed again and rubbed at his eyes and when he spoke his voice was lower and ragged. "I don't think either of 'em know what to do. They keep telling me to be patient and things'll get better. But I still can't see for shit and --"

He turned his head and looked at Rodney. "I could be permanently grounded, Rodney, and sent back to Earth with a white cane and a disability pension. All from an accident I can't even remember. I don't even know what the hell happened."

"I was, uh, wondering when you'd get around to asking about that," Rodney said, trying to hide his nervousness.

"So what was it? Teyla said we went to Dargara for dinner. It wasn't food poisoning."

Rodney quickly dashed a look at the space in the curtain, wishing fervently for someone- anyone- to come interrupt them. The hustle of normal infirmary activity could be heard but no one came in.

He pasted on a smile. "Jumper crash," he finally replied simply.

"Jumper … ? What - did we take fire?"

"No … not that we saw any sign of and Teyla didn't report anything."

"Well, was it a malfunction? Was there something wrong with the jumper?"

"We… we really aren't sure. You know, maybe I should get Keller."

Sheppard was clearly upset by the news. His breathing had escalated and he was taking deep gulps of air in and swallowing roughly.

"Did I-- was it something I -- Rodney, what the hell happened?"

Rodney rose and walked over to the curtain, stuck his hand through the space and started snapping as loudly as he could while still meeting Sheppard's squinted gaze. "We don't know what happened" -- he turned and shoved his head through the opening and whipped it around, finally catching a nurse entering the area. It was Sheppard's usual ICU nurse-- she was military - Candace or something. He snapped again and when she looked over he waved frantically at her. When he saw her start to head his way he returned to Sheppard's bedside.

The man was now sucking in air much too fast and his Adam's apple was bobbling up and down in his throat.

"Take it easy, Sheppard," he tried lamely. "We don't know what happened _yet_ but I'm working on it. Genius, remember? No puzzle too tough for my cerebral cortex."

But Sheppard ignored him. With a sudden cry of pain he slammed the butt of his palm into his forehead and began moaning.

Rodney was frozen, hands flailing about in the air, then he wheeled around and almost slammed into the nurse.

She calmly sidestepped him and headed over to the bed. "Colonel, what's goin' on, sir?"

"My head," was all he could manage, huffed out between gasps.

The nurse raised a hand to the radio at her ear and tapped it once. "Dr. Keller, you're needed in ICU." Then she pulled a machine over and began making adjustments to it with one hand while the other pressed the button on the bed to lower it.

"Just give us a second, here, Colonel, and we'll get you taken care of." She glanced up and finally noticed Rodney still standing there.

He stared at her, round-eyed. "What - what's happening?"

"You need to leave, Doctor," she said firmly. "We have this under control but you'll be in the way."

"Under control?" he squeaked out with righteous indignation. "You call this under control?"

Keller bustled in behind him, took one look at her patient and then turned to Rodney. "You have to leave, Rodney."

Sheppard was now practically doubled over, so painful looking, knowing his entire midsection was freshly sewn together, and the palms of both hands were buried in his eyes.

Rodney looked at Keller and met her eyes with his own now pleading ones. "What - why is he…?"

Keller planted her hands on each arm and began pushing him backwards but she met his gaze and held it. "It's a thunderclap headache, Rodney. Like a sudden onset, extreme migraine. We need to get his ISP back under control and the pain will go with it. You have to leave. Please."

"Okay. Okay - but-- wait. Oh…" He patted his pockets and fumbled out the surprise he'd meant to give Sheppard. "Here." He pushed them into Keller's hands and she blinked in confusion. Then she smiled sadly and said, "I'm sure he'll appreciate these later, Rodney. I'll make sure to tell him you brought them."

She folded Sheppard's aviator sunglasses and slipped them into her pocket.

"I was right. I do have the worst timing," Rodney muttered. He turned and left the room.


	8. Chapter 8 of 22

"Sir, are you goin' to see the colonel?"

There was no need to ask which one. Lorne had been fielding questions and expressions of concern and good wishes since they'd brought Sheppard's broken body back from Dagara.

"Yeah." He shoved another butter stick-sized chunk of C-4 in his vest and triple-checked his extra magazine was in its proper place.

"Can you tell him the gyrenes in the armory wish him Godspeed? And that we hope he's back raisin' Hell real soon."

Lorne smiled, taking not a drop of offense to Sgt Pulaski and everyone else's wishes for Sheppard to be back on duty soon. Hell, he wanted Sheppard back on duty. Lorne enjoyed running his own team, hoped for an oak cluster himself one day, but not like this.

"No problem, Gunny. Nice job on my Glock by the way." He'd picked his favorite off the rack, recognized by the chip two inches from the end of the muzzle, put there by a particularly hard-headed Wraith drone. The gun shone with a rainbow of gun oil and the slide was whisper quiet.

"I'll let Sergeant Kim know you said so, sir. You can be as greedy as you want with the boomsticks - we just got a shipment in."

Lorne patted his pocket and gave Pulaski a thumbs up. "All set, Gunny. Hold the fort." He grinned at the guttural _oorah! _the Marine shouted as he left.

* * *

Walking into the infirmary loaded down with enough ordnance to take out a small platoon was odd. He felt bigger. Louder.

But he stopped feeling that way as he heard someone louder than him and without the explosives and ammo.

Dr McKay was arguing with Lt Harrison in the area outside Sheppard's room. To her credit, her face was placid while McKay's was verging on florid. But as Lorne drew closer he could tell that the physicist's rant was lacking much of its usual bluster. It was almost as if the man thought it was expected of him to yell but his heart wasn't in it.

"Keller said all you needed to do was get his ICP down and he'd be better. So either you got it down or you didn't."

"We did, Dr. McKay," the nurse said calmly.

"Then why isn't he 'better'?" he bit out with added finger quotes dug through the air.

"He is. The migraine is under control and he's sleepin'. The morphine has him snowed under and he'll probably be that way til this afternoon."

"What's up?" Lorne finally broke in. "There a problem?"

Both voices joined in a chorus of _no_'s.

"Ooookay." He gave the nurse a sympathetic smile before addressing her adversary.

"I was gonna stop in and pay my respects to Colonel Sheppard. If that's not gonna happen I'm gonna head out. I've got a bunch of rock geeks waiting to get their chisels into PX2 745." He paused and debated. It might do _everybody _good to get McKay out from underfoot_._ "Do you care to come along?"

McKay raised an eyebrow and Lorne sighed and held up a hand. "Was just askin', doc. I know what a busy guy you are."

Seemingly mollified, McKay nodded. "Yes, yes I am. And since the _warden_ here won't let me in to see Sheppard, I guess I'll head back to my lab…"

He trailed off and his face set hard and Lorne finally had to turn around to see what had the scientist so pissed.

He hadn't had the pleasure yet of making the acquaintance of the IOA stooge but there was not one doubt that it was Pratt making his way in their direction. Everyone wore civvies on occasion. In fact, Sheppard seemed to find reasons for Casual Days whenever possible. But absolutely no one wore a three-piece Armani double-breasted suit on Atlantis.

The bureaucrat came striding in their direction, soft Italian leather shoes barely making a whisper on the tile floor.

Out of the corner of his eye, Lorne caught Lt Harrison making a hasty exit and he didn't blame her one bit. McKay was stiffening where he stood, adopting a formal stance with his hands laced behind his back.

"Gentlemen," Pratt said with a cursory nod at McKay and a hand thrust out at Lorne. "Major Lorne, a pleasure. Richard Pratt, IOA."

Lorne took the man's hand with distaste, allowing the man to squeeze his hand with a firm, moist grip. He gave a game smile in return and fought the urge to wipe his hand on his BDUs. "Mr. Pratt. What can we do for you, sir?"

"I'm here to see Colonel Sheppard." He shifted the briefcase he carried to his other hand and shot his watch forward from his cuff. "Dr. Keller said yesterday he'd be ready to be interviewed this morning."

"Well, he's not," McKay said curtly.

Pratt chuckled sarcastically and shook his head. "I thought your doctorate was in astrophysics, Dr. McKay."

"_One_ of them is."

"And is one of the others an MD, Doctor? Because if it isn't then you are in no position to tell me anything concerning Colonel Sheppard's ability to be questioned."

"It doesn't take an MD to figure out Sheppard can't answer any questions. He had some kind of severe migraine episode last night and is currently doing the Pink Floyd thing."

Lorne nodded knowingly but Pratt was obviously perplexed.

"Comfortably numb, sir," Lorne supplied in explanation. "Colonel Sheppard's own description of the way morphine feels."

Pratt rolled his eyes and sighed. "If he's on pain medication then there shouldn't be any concern that my enquiry will cause him any discomfort. It may even allow him to be more forthcoming."

McKay laughed out loud, a haughty bray. "Are you telling me that it's the IOA's policy to interview people under the influence of the heaviest narcotic known to modern medicine? Because while none of my _many_ doctorates include a law degree, I'm pretty confident that anything you get out of a _non compos mentis _party would at best be spurious and at worst make you look like a complete asshole for picking on the guy in the hospital bed ripped open from head to toe."

The pencil pusher smoothed his tie down and appeared to consider. "I'll be speaking with Dr. Keller and she will make the determination whether Colonel Sheppard can be questioned. In the meantime, I'd like to visit the planet and the crash site."

Lorne raised an eyebrow in surprise. "What do you expect to get out of that, Mr. Pratt?"

"All part of my enquiry, Major. You will make arrangements to take me forthwith, of course?"

"Of course," Lorne replied dryly. "Forthwith. I guess the rocks on PX2 745 will be breathing a sigh of relief, even if it pisses off the whole geology department. Can you be ready to meet me in the jumper bay in say, fifteen?"

"I'm ready now, Major."

Lorne eyed up the five thousand dollar suit and soft leather loafers. "Do you want something else to wear, sir?"

"Why? Are there extreme conditions on the planet? I was led to believe it was temperate."

"Oh, it's… temperate, sir. A little… unsophisticated, but definitely temperate."

"I have my equipment," Pratt replied, hefting his briefcase. "I'll be waiting in the jumper bay." And he turned on his heel and left.

Before Lorne could say anything, McKay surprised him. "I'm coming with you."

Lorne nodded and smiled. "Will be good to have you with us, doc. That was really cool, what you did with the legal stuff. Where'd you learn all that?"

Lorne was reminded why the scientist had grown on him when McKay allowed a small smile with his reply. "_Law & Order_, Major."

* * *

Considering he'd only told two people that they were headed to Dargara, it still should have been more surprising to find Ronon waiting for them at the jumper. It was only a last minute, almost literally, decision to head to the planet and since he figured Colonel Carter wasn't in the habit of blabbing about sensitive matters like the plans and whereabouts of visiting IOA members, there was only one other person who could have told the Satedan what they were doing.

"I really need to talk to Chuck about keeping his trap shut."

Ronon rose from his lean against the jumper and strode over. "Why?"

"I'm assuming he told you where we were headed?"

"Nope. Carter."

Wow. Not the answer he was expecting. "Not that it's not nice to see you, Ronon, but what are you doing here?"

"Coming with you."

Lorne considered for a moment. He had to admit to a little annoyance at the perceived notion that they needed the backup - and there was little doubt that was why the former runner was there. And the fact that Carter was the one who told Ronon where they were going seemed an additional slight.

On the flip side, spending the next several hours with only McKay and the jerk from the IOA was not entirely appealing. And Lorne also understood that Ronon was feeling especially… well, tense didn't really cover it. Even now the Satedan was like a coiled spring, staring defiantly at Lorne, waiting for him to tell him he couldn't go.

Lorne hadn't even finished the first word of, _well, okay then_, before Ronon was wheeling around and heading for the open back of the jumper.

McKay and Pratt came in together not a minute later. The physicist had kitted up in full mission-ready gear, vest and P-90 hooked in place. It made the bureaucrat's suit look even more ridiculous.

When they loaded into the jumper, McKay childishly called 'shotgun' but Ronon had already taken the back seat, right next to Pratt, and was turned about in his chair to stare daggers at the man.

Pratt feigned indifference but there was no way the intense glare aimed at him wasn't disconcerting. He stuck a hand towards Ronon. "Richard Pratt. I'm going to take a leap and guess you're Ronon Dex."

Ronon completely ignored the hand that hung there until Pratt finally dropped it with a shrug. "They told me you were an uncivilized troglodyte. My research once again bears out."

"They told me you were a pompous asshole," Ronon grunted. "Guess we know each other pretty well now."

Lorne was tempted to say, _Kids, don't make me come back there _but of course, Ronon wouldn't get the joke and Pratt looked like a man who had never cracked a smile at a joke in his life. So instead he darted a look over at McKay, the man being oddly quiet, contenting himself with studying the control panel in front of him and comparing it against whatever was on his open laptop.

The wormhole wooshed to life and Lorne took the motley crew on through.

* * *

There were volumes of research out there devoted to the psychology of color and its effect on mood. Hotels tended to be homey, neutral beiges, modern offices yellow or green, and hospitals a clean, sterile and numbing white. The fabric curtains that restricted his world into an eight by ten cell varied in shades of black, the reflection of sadness, mourning and death—a true absence of light.

John viewed his surroundings from behind his sunglasses, protection meant to battle UV rays and bright, blistering sunshine. The expensive lenses represented the bars of a scarier cage, allowing but a few limited peeks at the real world. There were stacks of machines to his right, monitors that tracked what was going on inside his head and displays flashing his vitals. Concentrating paradoxically on relaxing his eyes had allowed him to make out the information on his pulse.

The number had jumped up when he discovered he was able to read it and then rose even higher when it became blurry again. He sighed, let out a breath, and adjusted his aviators across the bridge of his nose. Ever since Keller had left them at his bedside, he'd noticed a few things in focus before they fuzzed out again. The minor victory felt hollow.

He rolled his neck among the pillows, listening to all the noise around him. He'd always thought the infirmary a quiet place, but he'd come to realize how much commotion there really was.

Various machines near his head beeped or hummed constantly. The carts that carried supplies, meals or equipment squeaked as they rolled by. Voices carried, even to his isolated little corner and footsteps crisscrossed the linoleum floors all day. It was no wonder his head throbbed non-stop; anything louder sent nails across the surface of his brain.

There was no telling about the time; lunch had seemingly been hours ago and not a single person had visited him. Of course the morphine had had him out like a light half the day, the receding effects making him feel like crap. But now he longed for a distraction from the lingering pain and thoughts about the accident.

His temples throbbed at the thought of the crash, a memory as shattered and lost as his sight. Keller had warned him about stressing out; the god-awful migraine from last night that had plagued him into the morning was as good a reinforcement as any. But Keller couldn't possibly fathom how difficult it was _not_ to think about something that could have killed Teyla and her baby.

Closing his eyes, he let himself drift and was on the verge of dozing when the sound of footfalls alerted him to new visitors. They weren't the softer patter of Lt. Harrison or any of the other nurses so he blinked and squinted at the entrance of two blurry forms.

"John?"

Recognizing his superior's voice, he tried sitting straighter in bed, immediately regretting the motion but trying anyway. "Colonel," he huffed.

Carter held out her hands. "At ease. Try to be still if you can."

He swallowed against the pain of movement, steeling himself for the reason for his CO's presence.

"How are you feeling today?" she asked.

"Better," he replied.

There was movement behind Carter and John recognized the smaller stature of Zelenka cautiously approaching the bed.

"Colonel Sheppard," the scientist greeted nervously.

"Radek."

John pushed up his glasses, feeling awkward at having both his boss and Zelenka standing there. Were they here to present some type of report? He was glad for his shades; they hid the discomfort of not knowing what to say.

"Ooh, this is one of those A/D converters, very nice," Zelenka commented, eying the machine that always held Keller's main interest. "This uses ultrasonic pulses and echoes to measure the dura mater inside the brain and... oh... even your heartbeat." He looked up, stepping back, sounding embarrassed. "Um, sorry, Colonel. It's just, this is so ahead of its time."

"I hope they write me up in the patent proposal as best test subject," John remarked dryly.

"I think what Radek was trying to say was, this saved you from some pretty invasive procedures," Carter said quietly.

It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the equipment available to him, but it didn't change the fact that he needed experimental technology to begin with. Now Carter probably thought he was an ungrateful jackass. He closed his eyes despite the relief his glasses provided.

A hand rested on his arm and he flinched. "Sorry, John," Carter said, pulling away.

It was so damn disconcerting, being touched often and not knowing when it was going to happen. It didn't help that a blanket and bandages were the only things covering his bare skin.

"No, I'm sorry... It's... all this medication... Makes me feel out of sorts."

It was only a small lie. A whole pharmacy flowed though his blood; the migraine had knocked him out and he still felt exhausted. At least the thin broth he'd had for lunch was staying down, earning him a token victory.

"So, what's going on?" He might as well get the reason for Carter's visit over with.

Her postured changed, but it was too murky to see her facial expression from behind the dark shades. "I wanted to see how you were doing," she said, sounding slightly taken back.

The surprise in her voice startled him. "Oh." He cleared his dry throat and scratched at where the nasal cannula rubbed under his nose. "Thank you. I... I was expecting Rodney earlier and he hasn't been here. Ronon either," he said, unable to keep the disappointment from his voice.

His two visitors exchanged looks, a silent communication hidden once again by the dark lenses.

"Actually, Rodney came by earlier but you were still ill. I, um... I needed him to go over my study on the acidic effect of the heavy rainfall on the city," Zelenka hastily explained. "I'll be sure to tell him."

John touched his frames. "Don't worry... I wanted to thank him for something is all."

"I asked Ronon to go with Lorne to PXA-541. They should be back later on," Carter interjected brightly.

"Something important?" he asked.

"Captain Hastings has the stomach flu and I figured maybe Ronon could work off some of his stress by going off-world," she replied.

John nodded. Ronon had thrummed with tension the few times he recalled the Satedan's larger than life presence hovering near his bed. The big guy took every injury as evidence of a personal failure and no words could dissuade him that sometimes accidents just happened. "That's a good idea. He doesn't know what to do with himself here."

"Um, Colonel... the reason why I came was to give you this," Zelenka said as he held out an object.

John opened his hand and the scientist placed what felt like a PDA in his palm. "Thanks," he said, a little confused.

"It is an iPod," Zelenka said, a smile in his voice.

"Really?" John brought the MP3 player up to his face, recognizing the smooth controls and design. "This is great." He slipped off his sunglasses, wincing as the light assaulted his sensitive eyes, but he was eager to study the device. He squinted, pulling it closer to his face. "Pirogov told me my options for entertainment would be pretty limited, and I can't sleep _all_ day," he continued as his shaky hands attempted to untangle the tiny ear buds.

"Actually..." Zelenka hesitated as he entered John's personal space. "If I may, Colonel?"

This was what he'd hoped to avoid. These situations where he felt feeble and helpless, co-workers fumbling over how to behave around him.

Biting his lip to prevent expressing the letdown, he began to hand it back. "Here."

"No, keep it. I modified this with voice activation commands. Just press the power button, there, on the side and tell it what you want to hear. I had Rodney transfer your play list from your laptop."

John didn't know what to say, touched by the thoughtfulness behind the gift. He admired the silver color before slipping his aviators back on, reducing it to another dark shape. Pressing it on, he said, "_Highwayman_."

"You need to say _song_, then the name. Same thing when you want to listen to an artist, you say _artist _then the name. It works like scrolling through your lists, except by audio commands," Zelenka explained, still acting uncomfortably.

Would everyone act so jittery around him from now on? Walk on eggshells in case he had a repeat of last night's performance?

No, he wouldn't allow them to witness what he was feeling inside. "Cat Stevens. _Moon Shadow_," he commanded. The guitar notes strummed out of the ear buds and John gave his visitors a smile. "Stop," he said and powered down the player. "Thanks, Radek. Really."

"Oh, it was no problem," Zelenka said with an audible sigh of relief. "Thought you might want something to listen to while you get better."

"Still, I know you have a lot to do. Are you helping with the jumper repair?"

Zelenka poked nervously at his glasses. "It – it was not repairable, I'm afraid, Colonel."

"The front end was crushed," Carter added.

Great, he _totaled_ an Ancient gate ship. It wasn't like they could pick another off the showroom floor.

"Could you at least salvage it for parts?" he asked, hopeful.

The silence spoke volumes. Carter finally answered him with a shrug. "Maybe. The right engine pod was sheared off, but we might be able to do something with the left one."

"Doesn't sound like one of my better landings."

There was an awkward silence as his joke fell flat and his body tensed.

Thankfully, they were all saved by Lt. Harrison's appearance; John recognized her footsteps as she pulled away the curtain. "Hey, sir. I see you have a couple visitors."

"Do you need us to leave?" Carter asked, stepping away to give the nurse room to maneuver.

"No, you're fine, Colonel Carter. I'm about to get rid of some of Colonel Sheppard's equipment here," the nurse said brightly.

John craned his head to where she was pushing some buttons on a monitor. "Really?"

"Yes, sir. No more oxygen cannula. Your sats have been high enough for long enough," she said as she removed the tubes from his nose. "How is that? If it feels too dry, I could get you some Vaseline."

"No, it's fine," he told her, rubbing away the soreness.

"Dr. Keller wants to get you up in a little while so she cut you back on the morphine. Get your faculties a little steadier for your walk," she continued as she checked his IV site.

Walk... more like drag, limp, puke, pass out if last time was any indication.

The lieutenant paused in her ministrations and turned to speak softly to him. "You don't look happy, Colonel. Thought you'd be itchin' to get outa this bed."

The idea of dragging his body out of bed and forcing all his torn open muscles to move held as much appeal as pissing off Ronon, then sparring with him. "No, not really," he told her.

"You did fine after your first surgery, sir."

"The hell I did," he replied tiredly.

"Well, you know you won't be joinin' Cirque du Soleil anytime, but it'll get better. Do you need anything' before I leave?"

"No, Lieutenant. Thank you."

Carter stepped up and gripped the railing of his bed. "I think we'll let you rest, John. But hey, it sounds like you're making great strides."

There was no need to fill his superior in on the pathetic progress made when they'd managed to get him upright after the first surgery. The dizziness had been so bad that, after finally getting a gown tied on him, he'd ruined it by getting sick. He couldn't even recall how he'd made it back to bed, probably due to the morphine they'd had to load him up with immediately after to quench the white hot agony in his head and belly.

"I'll be doing cartwheels before you know it," he said instead.

"Feel better, Colonel," Zelenka said softly.

"Thanks, Radek. And thanks again for the iPod."

He saw the little Czech's head nod a few times then he heard a quick but clearly pleased, "You're welcome."

With a final "take care" from Carter the two left.

John sank back into his pillows, mulling over the conversation, replaying everything said... and everything that wasn't.

He contemplated putting on the music player but knew he should probably grab a nap before his Big Adventure later on. So he took off his sunglasses and closed his eyes, allowing the sounds of the infirmary to lull him into sleep. Only seconds later he was jerked out of his reverie as he caught bits of a conversation his visitors were having where they clearly thought they were out of earshot.

"I am finding... difficult to keep... from him. When do you think he'll... told... going on." That was Zelenka..

Then Carter responded. "When we know that.…"

He strained to hear, but she was too far away and he missed the last part of her answer.

What the hell? They were keeping things from him? His thoughts raced all over the place, from possible threats and security issues to information concerning his team. Maybe he hadn't heard it correctly or maybe he'd misinterpreted what he did catch. The beeping sound that kept pace with his heart increased and he knew he had to get things under control.

He took long, steadying breaths, the monitor's audible rate coming down slowly- too slowly- with them. This wasn't the time to lose control; obviously they all felt he was fragile as it was. He fought to maintain his calm, to keep his breathing even and slow, to keep the numbers down. To not let the machines betray him the way his body had.

* * *

Tellen and Mina's home was large by most standards, Earth and otherwise. Lorne knew three generations lived under its roof and he'd had the pleasure of meeting most of them at one time or another. It was one of the few planets that they'd been able to maintain relations with through all the moves and upheaval, and they could be counted on for supplies when times got tough.

The couple came out to meet them with smiles and open arms- literally. Tellen was a hugger and the big man seemed oblivious to noticing or maybe caring who tolerated it and who didn't.

Ronon and their host greeted each other with equally hearty pounds on the back, their strength and bulk such that you could practically feel the vibrations through the ground. McKay tolerated his hug with arms held stiffly at his side but there was a smile on his face that didn't look too pained.

And Pratt became the first person, to Lorne's knowledge, that the big man had immediately sized up as unhuggable. He didn't even extend a hand in greeting but he was too ingrained as a host to be rude. Once introductions were made, he gestured them all into the back where a table was set with cold drinks and a plate of cheese, a chunk of heavy, crusty bread in a basket next to that.

The group settled themselves around the table and McKay immediately started piling slices of cheese and bread on his plate, only shrugging at Lorne's pointed look.

"I have heard about the crash, Major," Tellen said, getting right down to business. "Please, tell me how Teyla and the others fared."

"And her baby," Mina added.

"The baby is fine," Lorne answered, smiling in echo at the couple's obvious relief. "Teyla broke her arm pretty badly but our doctors have fixed her up and she should be just fine."

"Thank the Ancestors," Mina breathed, as Tellen nodded at her side. "And the colonel and the prince?"

Lorne hesitated, then smiled briefly in reassurance. "Colonel Sheppard was badly hurt but he's on the mend now." He dashed a quick glance at Pratt. "The prince, sadly, didn't make it. He was killed in the crash."

Tellen sagged in his chair. "We had heard it was quite bad, your airboat very badly damaged. Brenon's fieldmen had observed your people over many days trying to retrieve the pieces of the boat. From what they described, it truly was the mercy of the Ancestors that anyone survived."

"Are you suggesting that the Ancestors chose not to save Prince Fahd?" Pratt asked querulously.

Their host's face darkened and he sat forward in his chair, fixing his gaze on the stranger in the strange suit. Tellen was a generally affable man, given more to wine and jokes, but Lorne knew he hadn't gotten where he was on Dargara as a stupid man.

"We do not question the Ancestors' way. Each man has his course charted from birth and it is then given to him the manner in which he sails it. Against the wind, sheltered in safe harbor, or through the eye of the storm. Laden with riches or wisdom or family. Some will find calm waters, others will find themselves broken upon the rocks or swallowed by the beast."

Lorne had heard similar aphorisms many times before. The planet's entire history was tied to the massive seas and scattered lakes that covered their world. Their cultural and industrial development was a direct result of the shipping and fishing that life here depended on and as a result, their religion and beliefs were all nautical based.

Pratt had none of that knowledge. He blinked twice, no expression on his face, then he nodded as if in answer to an unvoiced question. Lorne had to give it to him. The man was a consummate politician if nothing else.

"Be that as it may," Pratt continued, "but the prince was a very important man back on Earth."

"We know," Tellen said without a hint of humor. "He told us so… many times."

McKay made a noise, half sneeze, half hairball, but quickly put on an innocent face as Pratt turned to glare at him.

"And as an important person," Pratt continued with a smoothing of his tie the only sign of his irritation, "it is my duty to find out what led to his demise." He pulled a small recording device from his briefcase and placed it on the table.

He thumbed the power on and a red light sprang to life. "What can you tell me?"

The big Dargaran raised eyebrows in surprise at the question and darted an uneasy look at the recorder on the table. "Why the airboat crashed. Did it not?"

McKay snorted again and Lorne kicked him none too softly under the table.

"Yes. Yes, Mr. Tellen, it did," Pratt said patiently. "Why do _you _think it crashed?"

Tellen sagged back in his seat and ran a calloused hand through his mass of ginger curls. "I know very little of your aircraft, sir. I know that Colonel Sheppard and his people use the technology of Atlantis to visit many worlds and that the airboats are gifts of the Ancestors. They do not run on steam as our boats do or on running water as our mills do. But it is an unfortunate fact that we do lose ships on the great lakes and seas. The waters rise and engulf the largest of our fleets. Some are sucked down into the depths by water devils. It was my belief that the storm had taken down Colonel Sheppard and Teyla… and the prince."

Pratt's eyes lit up with a cold fire. "Yes, the storm. It was threatening when Colonel Sheppard decided to leave, is that correct?"

"No."

"No, the storm wasn't threatening?"

Tellen shook his large, shaggy head. "No."

Pratt sighed and pulled a small PDA from his vest pocket. He ran through a dozen screens, the stylus almost a blur, while Tellen watched with interest.

"The information I have," Pratt said, tapping pointedly at the screen, "was that the storm was almost there when Colonel Sheppard decided to leave."

"The storm had already arrived when Colonel Sheppard made plans to take his leave," Tellen answered gravely.

This time Lorne had to fight his own smile. He very deliberately chose not to look at McKay for fear it would set both of them off.

Pratt obviously found no humor in the situation. In fact, The Dargaran's response actually had him taking notes in his PDA.

"So, the storm system had already arrived. Rain, lightning, winds, I assume?"

Tellen nodded and Mina leaned forward to add, "Our storms have been very bad of late. Some of our scientists believe the smoke from the blackstone we burn for fuel is causing it."

McKay snorted loudly this time and muttered, "Oh, for crying out loud. Has Al Gore been here for a visit?"

"Was Colonel Sheppard aware of how bad the storms could be?" Pratt asked of Mina.

"Oh, yes. We tried to convince him to stay until it had passed but he seemed most anxious to return."

Pratt seized on the comment like a cat on a mouse and worried at it. "Really? Did he say why he was so anxious to leave?"

Mina looked at her husband and they exchanged a silent conversation.

"I believe Colonel Sheppard may have been upset," Tellen said reluctantly.

"Not surprising," McKay mused out loud.

"Why would the colonel have been upset?" Pratt continued, unfazed.

"The…the prince had made some rather… improper comments. To Teyla."

Ronon, who until now had been surprisingly restrained, discreet even, growled and sat forward in his seat. "What did that asshole say to her?"

Mina smiled; she was very familiar with Ronon's ways and it actually pleased her, the way he came to his absent teammates' defense.

Tellen blushed and hesitated. "He used words unfamiliar to us."

"But I'm sure you got the drift," McKay prodded.

"They were in reference to the um… physical changes that impending motherhood brings. In order to best provide for the infant…" and he gestured with a pained expression in front of his chest.

"Did he touch her?" Ronon snarled.

"Not that we saw," Tellen hastened to respond. "But it was clear that Colonel Sheppard was offended. He rose to Teyla's defense but nothing came of it. The situation was quickly diffused, I assure you, without blows exchanged. No matter that they had been warranted," he added softly.

Ronon flashed a feral grin at the comment and sat back in his chair, momentarily satisfied.

Pratt acted quickly to bring things back under his control and Lorne noticed him jotting down the time stamp on the recorder, no doubt in order to go back and erase the less than complimentary report of Fahd's actions.

"So it's fair to say that Colonel Sheppard was angry."

Tellen smiled. "Probably. But Sheppard does not wear his emotions openly."

"That's an understatement," McKay muttered around a mouthful of bread.

Pratt sighed, allowing the first hint that his patience was slipping.

"Colonel Sheppard was angry at something that the prince said that he took offense to. Despite the storm having already arrived, and knowing the storms had been stronger than normal, he chose to take a pregnant woman and an important dignitary up in a jumper and leave. Again, despite your warnings that he not attempt this. Does this all sound correct, Mr. Tellen?"

The big man picked up a crust of bread and shoved it into his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully for a long moment, then brushed the crumbs off his hands.

"Colonel Sheppard has been to Dargara many times. He has seen what the storms can do. He has flown through some of them. I know he is military commander of the city of the Ancestors and that tells me the kind of man he is, even did I not know him well and call him friend. It happened as you described, sir, and it did not. Only Colonel Sheppard can say what truly happened. And as its captain, only Sheppard can say why it fell from the sky. Why you would ask of me and my wife what we only know happened by the scar the boat dug in the ground and the stories of Brenon's fieldmen, I do not understand."

Pratt rose stiffly from his chair and nodded sharply once. "Thank you for your time, sir. Ma'am," he added, dipping his head briefly at Mina. "I believe we are done here."

Lorne rose quickly, caught off guard by the rapid change, Ronon already on his feet by his side.

McKay was still chewing and picked up another hunk of bread as he stood up.

Pratt picked up his briefcase and began walking towards the jumper without a word and Lorne had to double time it to catch up. As he pulled up alongside the bureaucrat he matched the man's strides. "What's that all about, sir?"

"The oaf is quite correct," Pratt said matter of factly. "The only person who can tell me what happened is Colonel Sheppard. And I intend to ask him as soon as possible."


	9. Chapter 9 of 22

The atmosphere in the jumper was tense, primarily because of the unusual personality mix of its passengers. McKay complained about indigestion after having to wolf down his food due to their abrupt exit. Lorne mostly ignored Pratt's attempts at small talk, replying when he had to with clipped, one-word answers. And Ronon made it his mission to intimidate Pratt any chance he could. He invaded the man's personal space on the planet, in the jumper and on the way to the infirmary.

Ronon purposely sat on the bed next to Pratt's during their post mission check-up, staring silently the entire time as the man alternately flirted with the nurses and bitched about the necessity of examination to begin with. After it was complete, Pratt rolled down his sleeves, retrieved his jacket and wandered around the occupied beds. One of Keller's staff nearly collided with him when she turned around, and she dropped her clipboard with a noisy clatter.

"I am so sorry," Pratt said, bending down to retrieve the fallen papers.

"What are you doing hanging around here?" she huffed. "If you're done with your checkup, the exit is in the other direction."

"Of course, forgive me, my dear."

The nurse, the one Sheppard had long-ago dubbed the battle-axe, mumbled 'oh please' under her breath and hustled towards Keller's office. Pratt continued to hover for a bit, studying his surroundings. Then he threw a glance in Ronon's direction, found his briefcase and left.

Ronon slipped off the gurney and followed the man out. He didn't understand why this Pratt held so much power over the expedition. He didn't have McKay's intelligence, something that while often a pain, had saved Atlantis on countless occasions. He wasn't military, he lacked fighting skills, and his extravagant clothes and loathsome fog of rich perfume would get him killed on any hostile planet. He didn't deserve having his orders obeyed by the same men whose loyalty Sheppard earned day after day.

"For a tracker, you don't hide who you are following very well," Pratt said over his shoulder.

"If I was trying to hide, you'd be dead."

"Threatening a member of the IOA could get you in a lot of hot water."

Ronon stepped closer. "Who said it was just a threat?"

"Mr. Dex, your bravado doesn't scare me, though I do find it amusing. I'm sure your physical prowess has its merits on the battlefield and I will not fault a man his very nature." Pratt craned his neck to compensate for the three-inch height difference. "However, don't test my patience."

Silence being Ronon's favorite form of communication he stared, completely and obviously unimpressed, until Pratt's facade cracked slightly and he huffed with irritation. "Is your plan to follow me all day?"

"If I have to."

The investigator snorted, cocked his head to the side. "Why?"

"Because I don't like you," Ronon answered with a feral grin.

Pratt acted like a man used to people bowing to his orders and fearfully obeying every whim. "You have to respect the fact that I have a job to do here."

"Respect's earned. I don't see a need for you here."

"The IOA sees differently. I follow them and in turn, you follow me."

Ronon grabbed the end's of Pratt's expensive collar, jerking him to his tip-toes. "I answer to one person around here. No one else."

"Let go of me," Pratt seethed, never breaking direct eye contact.

"People out here die, every day. Earth should be concerned about that. Nothing else," Ronon said, breathing heavily but releasing him.

"Things are not so black and white. War costs money; this city doesn't run for free. Sorry to inform you but not everyone is treated equally. That's a myth." Pratt rolled his neck and smoothed out his wool suit. "The powerful buy influence because they provide everything you see around here. So back away and let me do what I was sent out for."

"You're a threat, only here to stir things up. I won't let that happen."

"By following me around all day?" The bureaucrat flipped his wrist and glanced at his gold watch. "I have an interview with Ms. Emmagan now, if you want to know my schedule today," he said with a put upon sigh.

Ronon just shrugged and followed him towards the next destination.

He waited outside the conference room until Teyla arrived, holding the door open despite the odd glance she tossed him at the chivalrous gesture. He ignored her eye roll when he pulled out the chair, ever careful to avoid jarring her arm.

She gathered one-handedly the ends of her long flowing skirt before taking a seat. "Really, this is not necessary, but thank you."

Pratt pressed a button on his recording device and eased back nonchalantly in the leather chair. "Nice to meet you, Ms. Emmagan. I trust you are feeling better. I'm sure you are aware of the reason for this interview; I'll try to keep it brief so you can go back to your quarters and relax," he said smoothly.

There was no introduction or eager hand shake, just a simple skip to business. Ronon leaned his back against the wall, crossing his arms. Teyla could handle whatever this idiot threw her way, but he wouldn't excuse any rude behavior towards her.

"I've have already gone over your previous testimony and only have a few follow up questions," Pratt explained in the same patronizing tone he'd used on the planet surface.

Teyla rested her good hand on top the cream colored shirt that loosely covered her stomach. "Ask away."

"You told Major Lorne that Colonel Sheppard left the dinner even though a large storm was in the area, is that correct?" Pratt asked, tapping his PDA.

"Yes, but--"

"--I only require one word answers," he interrupted with a wave of his hand.

Teyla leaned forward across the table, her voice firm. "Many answers require more than a single word. To believe otherwise is foolish."

"I'll try to stick to questions where it will suffice," he replied, undaunted.

Teyla sat straighter, pulling back her copper hair. "Simplicity is a naïve notion."

"Simple facts are often the quickest route to the truth," Pratt said, as if quoting some important proverb. "Was Colonel Sheppard warned of the storm?"

"Yes."

"Did he insist that you and Prince Fahd return to Atlantis without an explanation?"

"Yes," Teyla replied regretfully. "The colonel is an excellent pilot; he's flown through worse conditions."

Pratt opened his mouth to probably correct her about sticking to protocol, but seemed to think better of it. "Did Colonel Sheppard get into an argument with Prince Fahd during dinner?"

Teyla hesitated, clearly uncomfortable.

"Ms. Emmagan?"

"Prince Fahd was disrespectful towards his hosts the entire night and grew increasingly worse the more he drank. In fact--"

"--Yes or no--"

"--Yes, Prince Fahd was drunk, exhibiting extremely rude behavior for a dignitary of his stature. If it wasn't for the solid diplomatic ties established by Colonel Sheppard and the rest of the members of this expedition, I fear that a good trading relationship might have been damaged." She pointed to the microphone. "Did you get all that for the record?"

Ronon enjoyed seeing the bureaucrat's stony expression at the tongue lashing.

Pratt rested his elbows on top of the table, laced his long fingers together and rested his chin there. "Was Colonel Sheppard calm after his trading partners were so deeply offended?"

"Yes."

"Really? And what about after you were personally insulted?"

Teyla said nothing.

"Colonel Sheppard just stood by while an inebriated person made lewd remarks towards a member of his team?" Pratt asked in an exaggerated fashion.

"No, but--"

"--So, he was clearly upset."

"Yes, he was but--"

"--Then he left to get some fresh air, afterwards insisting that everyone return to Atlantis?"

Ronon fought the urge to rip the man's throat out, the smug words grating every nerve. He took a step away from the wall only to have Teyla hold up her hand to halt his rush towards the table.

Teyla was steadfastly cool, her body language not betraying that she was simmering under an exterior honed over years of dealing with leaders great and small. Her tone was honey and acid. "I did not question Colonel Sheppard's actions. After three years of dealing with invasions and battles with the Genii, Wraith and Replicators, he does not allow a mere drunken ambassador to alter his mood or his decision making."

Pratt did not seemed affected by her words. "Were there any signs of a hostile threat?"

"No."

"Any weapons fire when you took off?"

"No."

"To your knowledge, do the people of Dargara have any technology that could disable the jumper?"

"Not that I am aware of."

"And it just…" Pratt paused, once again occupied by his PDA. "Fell out of the sky?"

Teyla's shoulders stiffened and Ronon looked on in regret. This was pointless. Who cared? Did the people of Earth have nothing better to do than to waste time like this?

"Was this before or after Prince Fahd tried to wrest control of the jumper from the Colonel to avoid an area of storm clouds?" Pratt held up his hand to stop any answer. "Forgive me, you are not a trained pilot so there is no way you could know."

Ronon's jaw clenched, his bottom row of teeth scraping layers from the top. Teyla remained composed outwardly but he knew what was going on inside.

Pratt flipped through a folder, leafing over the contents in interest. "Do you think Colonel Sheppard enjoyed Prince Fahd's company?"

"I wouldn't know. If I could read Colonel Sheppard's mind, I would beat him at poker."

The laughter that followed was unexpected but Pratt wasn't responding to her joke. "Funny, I have many statements that say Prince Fahd had Colonel at his beck and call the entire week. One person even used the terms, _glorified butler and chauffeur._ I guess Colonel Sheppard, who is such a master at controlling his emotions, wouldn't react negatively after a long night of babysitting a drunk and rude guest."

"Colonel Sheppard takes his duties seriously and did whatever it took to make Prince Fahd's visit a success," she replied.

Ronon's muscles trembled from keeping them from action; he fought the urge to reach over and punch Pratt's lights out after each insulting question. He kept his cool, allowing Teyla's strength to bleed into his and not allow his behavior to reflect badly on his CO.

Pratt clicked off his machine. "Thank you for your cooperation; that will be all for today."

Ronon moved over towards Teyla's chair when both their radios chirped with a city wide broadcast on all channels.

"_This is Colonel Carter. I need any teams close to Lab Eight to head over there to aid in evacuating personnel. We have an explosion of unknown nature. All other personnel, please avoid Lab Eight while we get a handle on the situation."_

"That is Rodney's lab," Teyla reminded him.

All Ronon wanted to do was ghost Pratt wherever he went, but McKay could be in trouble. "I'll go over there and see what's happening."

Her face flashed annoyance at being left out but he headed her argument off. "I'll radio you, once I find out what's happened."

Pratt moved past them, briefcase in hand. "I will get out of your way now. Give my warmest regards to Dr. McKay. Hopefully no one was too badly injured," he said, slipping out the door.

Ronon exhaled harshly. "I hate him."

Teyla sighed as well. "I do not enjoy his presence either. But soon this whole ordeal will be over and he will be gone."

* * *

The seventh day of John's stay in the infirmary proved to be an eventful one. The morning had kicked off with a shuffle around the tiny ICU ward, a set of beds divided up by a handful of curtains. His area was in the very back to isolate him from the noise and lighting of the rest of the ward. He no longer needed constant critical care but because of the nature of his injuries, Keller felt it best that he heal in the quiet solitude it provided. He even wore a gown full-time now, with a row of snaps along the side if anyone needed to poke or prod him.

Walking with the aid of two people was a grueling experience, but he still insisted they stop for a brief visit with a critically injured Marine. The soldier spent most of the conversation wishing his CO a speedy recovery and it only fed John's resolve to get back on duty. He was contemplating an energy-recouping nap when a familiar lumbering gait signaled Dr. Pirogov's arrival.

"Aaah, Colonel, you are not the color of your bedsheets today," Pirogov appraised him with a chuckle. "But maybe a little rumpled like them? Hmmm?"

Being on a reduced schedule of morphine made John more clear headed, but the pain still took its toll. If the Russian Muppet was poking fun at him, he didn't want to see how rough he looked in the mirror.

Pirogov hummed under his breath, pulling out his scanner from a suit pocket. "Is time for more tests. I want to compare from few days ago and do a couple new ones, yes?" the doctor inquired, carding his fingers through his bushy beard in contemplation.

John folded the temples of his aviators, settled them in his lap and sat straighter in bed. Blood roared in his ears with the movement but he steeled his breathing. "Go for it, doc."

Pirogov tapped his finger on the scanner. "You are sure this is not bad day? I know you have been up and about. Maybe I come back when you are feeling--"

"--Let's just get it over with. If I'm gonna get better, I'll have to deal with a ton of bad days."

"Spoken like many great military minds, Colonel. Very well, I make adjustments and we begin," the physician said, tweaking the instrument.

John rested his eyes to half slits, watching a man whose hairy appearance brought new meaning to the whole "Russian bear" image. "What'cha doing when you're not studying brain damaged colonels?"

"Tcha. You are not brain damaged. I deal with people with serious injuries, many times worse than yours."

_Good one, John. _He sighed. "Sorry... I was just..."

"No, is okay. Actually, Dr. Keller has let me help her. I was given a com and even handled a concussion the other day. When I'm not playing with my own research, I demonstrate on computer the latest in surgery. Is sad that you have had need of my skills in the past," Pirogov mused with a rueful shake of his head.

John thought of Elizabeth, surrounded by machines as he gave the order over the headset not to use any of the nanite technology to save her life. His morale sank lower, knowing what strings had been pulled to bring in an expert for him. The ache in his temples began to pound, even before the tests began.

Pirogov mimicked the procedure from days past, training the scanner all over his skull and fussing with a few of the buttons. Then he placed it in John's hands, asking him to track the flashing little dot around.

"Now, tell me what you see?"

The dot finished dancing, turned into a letter. "G," John said.

"Good. Tell me what it is every time it changes."

The image morphed from one letter to the next; the first few he was able to read easily.

"_T... F... Y... D." _Then things began fuzzing out again. "Um...K?" John guessed.

After each answer the doctor clicked a button on the device, urging him to continue. By the sixth fuzzy one in a row, the blur doubled. Daggers shot through his head with the familiar twinges of an oncoming migraine. "I… um... can't tell."

"Please describe. Just a moment longer."

"It's just a blob." He swallowed thickly. God, had he been reduced to this?

"Good job, this gives me much better data," Pirogov said, playing with his toy before looking over. "How is your pain? Should I get the Lieutenant?"

"No," he blurted, controlling his breathing. "How'd… how'd I do?"

Pirogov sighed. "What is it they say? Rome was not built in a day, Colonel. I will not know for a while. You could read letters this time, maintain a focus. You could not even track movement before. Is improvement."

John slipped his shades back on. "Is there something I should do? Exercises... Or, I don't know, some kind of therapy?"

"Rest, my good Colonel. It has only been week; it takes time for the brain to heal. It is marvelous thing the brain. It is like CPU... when computer breaks we replace it. When the mind is hurt, you cannot just get a new one."

"Not as simple as reinstalling Windows, huh?" John deadpanned.

"No, Colonel. I am Mac guy," Pirogov laughed, holding his belly as he guffawed. "See humor is good for body and mind. So is music. I see you have iPod, now. You control great orchestras at your fingertips," the doctor said, miming a conductor's wand.

John squinched up his face, scrubbing his hand through his hair. Between the earlier physical workout and playing laser-tag with his eyes, he was hurting all over.

"You did _wery _well today. I might have surprise for you soon; something I have been working on to help. I need tests results to finish. When I am done, I think it will give you much relief."

That sounded like the best news yet, John thought. "What--

"--Wait, Colonel," the man said, holding up a hand and tapping his com.

It was hard to read an expression through the heavy tint of his shades.

Pirogov nodded and looked back at John. "There was accident in a lab, nothing too serious. Much smoke inhalation. I have been asked to lend a hand," the physician explained.

"Go," John waved him away. "I'm not goin' anywhere."

Pirogov disappeared into the shadows, leaving him to contemplate what his mysterious good news could be. His headache flared and he had just started to nod off when he heard the faint sound of leather shoes approach his bed. The footfalls were not familiar and John peered at his new visitor.

"Colonel John Sheppard?"

"Yes."

"My name is Richard Pratt, IOA," the figure introduced himself.

John's mind reeled. "IOA?"

"Yes, I am in charge of the investigation into the jumper crash on Dargara that occurred seven days ago."

Richard Pratt stood over his bed, dressed head to toe in a suit that rivaled his brother's in taste and expense. The man's cologne neared the 400 a bottle range from the smell of it; his stance and mannerisms screamed out Ivy League.

Irritation and annoyance competed for John's attention, but he settled for a curt, "Why is the IOA interested in a shuttle crash?"

_And why is this the first I'm hearing of it?_

Pratt ignored his question, swinging the table used for his meals over John's lap. "I'll set up my recorder right here so there is no need for you to move."

John's pitcher of water was moved to make room for a device with what looked like a tiny microphone. The table was slid towards his sensitive gauze-wrapped middle, effectively trapping him in place.

"State your name for the record," he was ordered.

John scowled at the man as he pulled up a chair and plopped himself down, flipping open a notebook, pen at the ready.

"Colonel John Sheppard, United States Air Force. Now, do you mind telling me what the hell is going on?" He curled his hands into fists on the table, trying to rein in his control.

The man who looked like he'd walked off the set of "Ocean's Eleven" cocked his head. "It would appear that Colonel Carter has not briefed you as to my visit. I represent Stargate Command in this inquiry, thus you must adhere to my authority on this matter. I expect all answers to my questions to be forthright and honest."

Lawyer talk and doublespeak sent an ice pick through his skull. "What…. inquiry?" John gritted through his teeth.

The momentary pause was for dramatic effect he assumed. Pratt bent over in his chair, drawing his face closer to John's. "This is an investigation into the crash on PMX-725 that resulted in the death of Prince Fahd, Royal Member of the House of Saud."

_Death?_

John wracked his Swiss-cheesed mind for a fragment, an image, a fucking snapshot of memory. "The prince?" he asked.

"Yes, Prince Fahd. A dignitary whose safety was your responsibility, at all times."

"He died?"

John tried to process the last few seconds; this man was IOA and Prince Fahd had died in the crash. He couldn't recall the last time he'd spoken to Fahd; the memory was distant, filed along with arguments with Rodney and the monthly personnel evaluations that had been overdue. "I remember explaining how the ATA gene worked with the jumper's controls," he said, in a faraway voice.

"Was this before the crash?"

"Yes, a few days before." John shook his head. "No one told me. I didn't even know he was in the jumper."

"You're saying that you don't remember the crash?"

The tone was equal parts disbelief and mocking. John turned to the source of it, unable to conceal the hard edge to his voice. "I don't remember anything. I had to be told about the accident."

"Yes, yes. Head trauma. I've been appraised of your injuries but was hoping to _jog _your memory. I know talking can jar loose pesky things in our mind." Pratt tapped his pen on the tiny table. "It's interesting that you were not informed by your commanding officer about this. Or that none of your friends mentioned it. What do you think they're trying to hide?"

John's head shot up at the last remark. "Hiding? No one's hiding anything."

Yet, for days his team had not said a word about a fatality. A man was killed under his watch and this was the first he was hearing of it.

Pratt continued to bounce his pen, the impact of metal on wood echoing loudly in the tiny space, sending knives of pain through his skull.

"What do you call keeping information from you, Colonel? Did they forget like a wife does after coming home from the store without the milk?"

John grabbed at the pen, to cease the incessant tapping. "Stop that," he breathed.

"I'm sorry, didn't mean to imply anything inappropriate. I'm sure it was a simple oversight on their part."

Pratt's voice and overall demeanor were nails on a blackboard. John's face felt flush and he breathed heavily to compensate, now craving a little water.

"I mean, with the concerns about a medical discharge so up in the air, I know they only have your best interest at heart," Pratt explained with the gaze of a rattlesnake.

Never had John felt the handicap of his sunglasses until now; the lenses were a neon sign of weakness. He slid them off and stared defiantly at his guest without impediment. The migraine that'd been threatening the past twenty minutes began to squeeze like a vice.

"They say you can tell when a person is lying by looking directly in their eyes," Pratt said, resting an elbow on his notepad. "Tell me, Colonel, do you make it a habit to fly in bad weather?"

"Depends," John replied, schooling his reaction to the question.

"On what?"

"If there are any bad guys chasing me."

"And if there are none?"

"Then no."

"You're an experienced, decorated pilot of an impressive range of craft. Why would flying a jumper in a storm bother you?"

_This is an investigation into a crash on PMX-725 that resulted in the death of Prince Fahd._

John took a shuddering breath, trying to dredge up a memory of the crash, of flying the jumper.

"Colonel?"

"Storms are unpredictable: turbulence, high winds, ionic disturbances, air pressure, anything could affect navigation."

"However, you flew a diplomatic attaché and a pregnant member of your team into a dangerous storm with lightning and heavy rain," Pratt said, drilling him.

"No! I would never do that," John growled.

"You did. I have testimony from the natives and from Ms. Emmagan that you were warned against flying back but you did anyway."

It couldn't be true; there was no way he would endanger Teyla, her son like that. But Fahd was dead and his friends never told him. Lied to by omission.

_Why?_

Teyla's arm was shattered by the crash. He traced the outlines of the tape securing the heavy bandages on his abdomen, imagining if Teyla had been sitting elsewhere in the jumper.

One of the monitors near him beeped faster. "There has to be some reason," he mumbled.

"Your temper perhaps?"

John sat up hard, the table digging into his belly. "No," he gasped.

"Did you like the prince, Colonel?"

_What the fuck?_

He was breathing hard now, glaring at Pratt until his eyes squeezed shut against his will, pain lancing in his head and down his neck. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Or maybe you thought you had something better to do with your time? You do recall that you had other pressing matters to rush back to, or is your memory fuzzy about that, too?"

"I escorted Prince Fahd ...wherever he wanted to go," He was now gulping for air.

"But that wasn't what you _wanted _to do?"

_Calm, maintain calm._

"I'm in the military, Mr. Pratt. I follow orders."

"Not all the time," the man insinuated. "Would you say that the prince was an easy man to get along with?"

The dim light in the room grew intense; the curtains glowed a hot white and the sheets reflected the illumination from above like a million particles of desert sand blasted by the sun.

John's hands slipped off the table to fist the bed sheets. Focus. He had to focus on his breathing. "I played tour guide... nothing else. I was too busy to pay him much attention."

"Would you say that your time was more valuable than babysitting the prince?" Pratt questioned in frustration.

There was an order to this line of questioning. Things had shifted from the accident to his interactions with Fahd. Why wasn't he being asked more about the jumper?

John forced his eyes back open to look up at his interrogator; too many years of training told him never to break eye contact. "What's the official cause of the crash?"

Pratt's form blurred and doubled like hours after a drinking binge.

"It's not mechanical failure," Pratt said, hinting at the real answer.

_Pilot error. _

John couldn't be stoic anymore. The headache was even than he'd experienced days before and he palmed his forehead, unable to keep the groan from escaping his lips.

"Come on, no need for dramatics, Colonel."

A tidal wave of pain slammed into him, his equilibrium was shot to hell and it felt like he was falling over in bed.

"You're going to need to answer these questions one way or another."

_The accident was his fault?_

An alarm went off, the shrill noise piercing. He wanted to curl up in a ball but the pain in his stomach prevented him.

"Colonel Sheppard?"

He couldn't answer. He could only groan.

"Do you... um...do you need a doctor?"

Pratt sounded nervous, his voice lost and tiny.

"Hey!...Nurse...We...I...need...in here..."

John surrendered to the darkness, allowing the rest of the world to disappear.

* * *

There was one gurney left empty. The medics, seeing that their "patient" was apparently not yet ready to be taken back to the infirmary, chose instead to clean up after the crisis, picking up discarded plastic bags that had held oxygen tubing and paper wrappers that formerly contained rolls of gauze.

McKay was a decidedly active part of the activity going on near a charred table holding a sad, blackened pile of metal and crystals, still dripping with fire retardant foam. Face darkened with soot on one cheek, he was barking out orders, each pointed out with sharp jabs of his finger at the target of his anger, a young scientist in a grey uniform with a red, green and white flag patch on his sleeve.

As Ronon approached he could hear that McKay wasn't even winding down.

"Look, Fratelli --"

"Ees Frangelico", the younger man interrupted sullenly.

"I don't give a crap if your name's Enrico Fermi- I wouldn't give a crap if you _were_ Enrico Fermi! Learn the differences in translational symmetry among the fourteen Bravis crystal lattices before you go running charges through them! What the hell you were thinking when --"

His tirade was cut off as he was seized by a coughing fit. He raised a gauze covered left hand to cover his mouth and Ronon took the opportunity to step forward and wrap his hand around McKay's upper arm.

"McKay, come on."

But the physicist tried to pull away, still fired up and ornery. "Gimme a second would you?" he hacked out, his voice rough. "My lungs have been turned to smoked hams in my chest. And I've seared half the flesh off my hand," he added, waving the appendage, trailing a loose piece of gauze in the air.

"I know," Ronon answered, not letting go of his grasp.

"You know?" McKay stopped and looked up to blink owlishly.

"Yeah. That's why I said, come on. They're ready to take you to the infirmary."

"Oh." The shorter man sagged a little and considered his injured hand. "Probably fused my fingers together permanently. I'll have to design a whole new keyboard," he continued dazedly as Ronon steered him over to the gurney. "I could do that, you know…"

"Yup, I know", Ronon grunted even as he was shaking his head. Whatever adrenaline had been keeping McKay on his feet was leeching away rapidly and Ronon tightened his grip as he felt the telltale pull of a falling body.

"Whoa!" he muttered as he hauled the physicist back to his feet. McKay's legs wobbled under him as he started another coughing jag.

The two medics rushed the gurney over, dropping it down so McKay could settle his butt onto the stretcher and one soon had an oxygen mask in place as the other grabbed the man's feet and helped him lay back.

Then with the gurney pulled up to height, they began the rush to the infirmary, Ronon's hand staying on the stretcher the whole way back. Another member of the team had been felled and he could only hope that McKay's injuries weren't as bad as Sheppard's and Teyla's.

* * *

The infirmary was a hive of activity, white coat and colored scrub clad figures moving in a carefully rehearsed dance around three beds.

Keller broke free and walked over to get the bullet of McKay's vitals and she took the time to smile reassuringly down at him.

"Sounds like you're doing okay, Rodney," she said after hearing his stats. She picked up his hand and peeked under the bandages. " Oooh," she hissed in a sucked breath. "That looks…" She squinted more intently at it, then replaced the bandage. "Not too bad, actually. Blistered - second degree." She jutted her chin at the one medic off to the side then returned a kind smile to the scientist. "Sorry, Rodney, you get triaged to the end of the line. I'll have a nurse come by and dress your hand, okay?"

McKay sat up and pulled the oxygen mask free, shaking it in the air. "Hello! Smoke inhalation! I practically coughed up a most likely charred lung."

She fought a broader grin and patted his leg. "Your 02 sats are at 100 percent, Rodney. The smoke probably just irritated your bronchi." She nodded knowingly. "I'll have an RT come by with an inhaler treatment just in case. We can't be too careful, what with your asthma," she added, not too condescendingly.

Ronon just rolled his eyes, half relieved that McKay's injuries weren't life-threatening and half annoyed that they weren't. Wasted concern and sympathy kinda pissed him off.

McKay accepted her gesture with the smallest of pouts, swinging his legs like a kid off the side of the gurney. "Go," he said, almost not grudgingly. He shooed her away with his bandaged hand. "Go take care of your sick people."

She patted his leg again more firmly then darted off to join the team concentrated around one of the beds.

"Hey, did you see how Dr. O'Reilly's doing?" McKay asked "She's one of the few decent ones and I kinda actually like her."

Ronon puzzled over that for a second. "You mean the red haired engineer?"

McKay had already replaced the mask over his face so he nodded in response.

"Her name's O'Brien, McKay," Ronon said with a sigh.

"Oh. Really?" McKay asked, briefly pulling away the mask.

"Yeah. And she looks okay. She's over there." He pointed to a gurney similar to the one McKay sat on, holding a matching oxygen mask.

"Oh, good," McKay said, his voice chipper under the muffle of the plastic. "Like I said, I really like her."

"Yeah," Ronon replied dryly. "I can tell. You know, McKay, you --"

He stopped mid-sentence at the sight of Pratt walking out into the infirmary. Backing out, actually, from Sheppard's area. His eyes were wide and fixed on a point within the four fabric walls. Then Sheppard's monitor alarms started going off.

Ronon's hackles were already up when he heard Pratt choke out, "Nurse! Someone--"

Before the runner could even react to the strange sight, Keller had whirled about and made an instant assessment. "Cadence!" she shouted and a nurse in military uniform working on a patient on another gurney handed a roll of gauze off and dashed off towards Sheppard's room.

McKay dropped down from the gurney and stood there, staring as if he tried hard enough he could see through the opaque walls. Ronon barely registered the movement in his peripheral vision.

Because his eyes were trained on his target.

Pratt moved off a few feet, nervously smoothing his tie. He looked dazedly down at something in his hand- a small black and chrome box- and then he pushed a button and dropped it into his inner suit pocket.

The sight of the recording device was all Ronon needed. In three long strides he was in Pratt's face, grabbing the knot of his necktie and pushing him back until he hit the wall of the infirmary. "What the hell were you doing in there?" Ronon growled. He enjoyed seeing the color wash out of Pratt's face.

Pratt clawed at Ronon's fingers, trying to loosen the Satedan's hold. "This - this is an infirmary!" Pratt managed to eke out.

"I know it is. That's why I wanna know what the hell you were doing here? You have no business here!"

The color that had left his face was now backing up, blood suffusing his cheeks and turning them crimson. "That's exactly what it was - business!" The bureaucrat spat out. "Unhand me!"

Ronon just tightened his grip. "What business?" he snarled.

The only response Pratt could make was a strangled noise and his eyes began to roll in their sockets.

"I asked you a question, IOA man!"

He felt Pratt's knees begin to fold and it made him flash to his concern for McKay. He shouldn't be concerned for this man, though. He should keep tightening his hold until the man choked on his tongue…

Through the red haze of rage he heard a voice calling his name. Then he felt a hand on his arm, pulling with great effort.

"Ronon, enough!"

A second hand joined the first and started tugging at his arm. He turned his head just slightly, so deeply entrenched in his anger that his vision had tunneled down to the single image of Pratt's blood red face. McKay was shouting again, "Ronon! You're killing him! Let GO!"

Snapping out of his fugue, Ronon released Pratt and the man sagged to the ground, gasping and rubbing at his neck.

McKay's hands were still wrapped around his arm and he snapped himself free but didn't move but for the deep, shuddering breaths that made his chest heave.

Pratt gained enough air to point a shaky finger at Ronon. "I'll have you jailed for this, you barbaric thug!"

Ronon leaned over, tension still humming in every muscle. "You go near Sheppard again and I'll kill you."

Before Pratt could respond a nurse was there, at his side, dropping to her knees. She waved a medic over with a tank of oxygen and pushed a mask over the man's face before picking up his wrist and taking his pulse. It was the battleaxe and she aimed a furious glare at Ronon. "May I remind you gentlemen, and I use the term _very_ loosely, that this is an infirmary!" she hissed in a loud whisper.

Ronon grunted at her, as conciliatory as he was gonna get, but he did turn away finally, the fight draining out of him and worry taking its place. Keller hadn't come out of Sheppard's room yet.

"You were really going to kill him, weren't you?"

McKay was still standing there, and when Ronon turned an angry glare on him he backed up a step, then folded his arms across his chest.

Ronon had to give the scientist credit. He held the taller man's gaze and didn't look away.

In fact, it was Ronon who finally gave, breaking into a small but still slightly evil smile. "Nah. You were holding me back."

"Yes. Yes, at least I was trying to," McKay said with only the slightest of stammers. Then he raised his chin and stood a little straighter.

"You did good, McKay."

"Really?"

"Yeah." Ronon reached over and punched him in the shoulder, his smile growing as McKay made an 'ow' with his lips and rubbed at his arm. "You're pretty strong. You been working out?"

"Hm. No. I mean, my normal, you know, routine." McKay flexed his arm and then dropped it to his side. "I lift… sometimes. I've been going to the gym… couple times a month. I'm busy, you know. But I've been trying to eat right… more protein…" He trailed off, then shrugged. "I don't think I could've pulled you off if you weren't willing," he added quietly.

Ronon nodded. There was no doubt of what he was capable of in defense of friends and family. The trail of corpses across Pegasus spoke to that. But he wasn't a soulless killing machine, incapable of controlling himself. At least, that's what he told himself.

He turned away. The exchange had been brief, laden and layered with understanding, but with a man he rarely understood. His eyes wandered back to Sheppard's area. "What do you think's going on in there?"

McKay sighed loudly and wandered back to hop on his gurney. He coughed, then picked up the abandoned oxygen mask, playing with the elastic band before dropping it back onto the stretcher. "Take your pick. He's bleeding out from his incision. One of his ribs punctured a lung. Infection."

He sighed again and swung his legs dejectedly. "Sudden onset migraine like I was treated to the other day, or a seizure." He looked up and smiled sadly. "Maybe it was just lunch. I heard it was meatloaf today," he added, punctuating meatloaf with air quotes.

Ronon snorted. "I like Mandy's meatloaf." He gave another long, lingering look at the closed off curtain, then sighed again and walked over to stand in front of the gurney.

McKay stared back, puzzled, but the Satedan just stood there, calmly waiting.

Then the genius finally got it.

"Oh. You could just _ask_, you know." But he sidled over and made room for Ronon to join him on the gurney.

It was now two sets of eyes, trained straight ahead, and two friends waiting for news on a third.


	10. Chapter 10 of 22

Sam was proud of knowing the premier off-world team's regular haunts, given the short amount of time since she'd taken command of Atlantis. Rodney practically lived in his lab; his days and nights overlapped often enough to warrant a cot in one of the corners. Teyla was easier to track down because she actually answered her com. Before the accident, Sheppard had been pretty reliable, but when he wanted to hide, the city always somehow managed to cover his tracks.

Ronon Dex never did anything to conceal his whereabouts; after everything she'd read about him, there was little doubt he could slip away and never be found if that was his intention. And so it was no surprise to see him in the gym, doing rapid-fire push-ups, clapping his hands between each thrust before slamming them back on the mat.

"I'm surprised you're not pounding on that," she said, glancing at the large punching bag that hung nearby.

"Don't... like… wearing.… gloves."

"I see. Still, it might help blow off steam."

"Stupid... to... hit… something... that… stays... still."

"Do you think you could stop while we talk?" she asked pointedly.

If anything, Ronon increased the frantic pace, becoming a blur of muscle and wild hair. The disregard for her authority was nothing new, but today it wouldn't be tolerated. "Stand down while I'm addressing you," she ordered.

Ronon surged to his feet, sweaty and breathing hard. He pinned her with a defiant stare and a jut of his jaw.

"You're facing some serious charges. I wanted to hear your side of the story before I make my decision about disciplinary action."

The gym was clear of people; she'd made sure of that before entering. It was one thing to reprimand someone viewed highly in the chain of command and another to do it in front of an audience. Sam didn't back down when the much larger man loomed closer, the two of them testing each other's boundaries.

"There's nothing to say. I heard Sheppard's alarms blaring. Saw the IOA guy back out of the area. Saw that stupid recorder. The guilt all over his face."

"_And_?" Sam said sharply.

Ronon's nostrils flared. "I asked him what he was doing there."

Beating around the bush wasn't her style. "And how exactly did you ask him?"

"I wrapped my hands around his lying throat."

"You assaulted a member of the group that controls this entire project. Not only that, but you threatened to kill him! Now, I don't know how things ran on your planet or in your platoon. But here, there are laws and you just broke several of them."

"Laws and rules. Seems all you care about around here."

Sam shifted from harsh to simply stern. "It keeps order. Protects our people, including you."

"What about Sheppard? What rule protects him?" Ronon challenged.

There it was. The real reason for the incident. There was something more, hidden in the snarling undertone. "What makes you think that Colonel Sheppard was in danger?"

It was tricky ground, to gauge the real truth. Everyone involved knew that Pratt was supposed to gain permission to talk to Colonel Sheppard. If there was more to things than just a bureaucrat's ego and power play, she wanted to know about it.

"I followed Pratt."

Ronon's answer did little to shed light on the serious situation. "Why?"

"I always keep an eye on my enemy."

"Pratt's not the enemy." Exhaling, Sam went on. "Still doesn't answer my question or explain your actions."

"I followed him around all day. Every moment, I was there. The second I left to check on McKay, he goes back to the infirmary. He had no business there. Knew I wouldn't have allowed him to bother Sheppard."

"You're saying he planned it?"

Ronon looked at her like she was a child. "He didn't try talking to Sheppard after his check up. But he goes when everyone else is busy." He narrowed his eyes at her. "Wasn't it_ your _rule that he get permission before talking to anyone?"

"It is and I plan on discussing that with him."

"Huh. You going to discuss things when he kills Sheppard next time?"

"That's not going to happen."

"No?"

He was provoking her and it wasn't going to fly. "I enforce the rules around here. I'm not going to allow you or Pratt to do whatever you please. Right now, I'm trying to decide whether to lock you in the brig."

Ronon stood there, watching her.

"But I'm not going to, because if I did that, then I'd want to throw Pratt in there with you. And as much as I'd love to do that, I'm sure the IOA would send someone worse. No, you're going to stay away from Pratt. You will not interfere with his investigation and you will not follow him around."

Again Sam was greeted with an expression of indifference to her words. "I'll take your silence as an agreement. Have I made myself clear?"

"Yeah."

It wasn't the total acquiescence she was hoping for, but maybe with Ronon that was the closest she'd get. Seeing as he was going to probably finish his push-ups, Sam nodded and made her way out the door.

"If he breaks your rules again, so will I."

She didn't intend for any of that to happen. Not in her city.

* * *

Sam didn't appreciate being made to wait, especially with her impossibly tight schedule. She was still riding an adrenaline high after her confrontation with Ronon and found herself pacing in her office. The ex-runner had brought up several valid points in their verbal throwdown, but they couldn't justify his behavior. She entertained the idea of having one of the Marines locate and drag Pratt into her office. The notion was a pipe dream, but it was high time rein in the man.

Her quarry finally appeared, ascending the stairs and entering the office as if it belonged to him. "I still have business to attend to, so I'd like to keep this brief," Pratt announced, pulling out a chair and sitting.

"This meeting began at 1800 hours and you're thirty-five minutes late," she explained in a clipped tone. "And I didn't say you could have a seat."

For the very first time since his arrival, Richard Pratt's mask slipped, his eyes darkening for a few seconds before his cool exterior came up. He didn't get out of his chair, just unfastened the bottom button of his custom-tailored suit. "Have you taken disciplinary action with that thug, Dex?"

"I've already spoken to Ronon and reprimanded him for his behavior in the infirmary," Sam replied.

"Spoken to? The only thing that animal understands is violence and brutality. He should be in the brig, not given a stern talking." Pratt loosened the tie around his collar to show her the fingertip bruises underneath. "I've already had photographic evidence taken of his assault. And I've typed up my formal recommendation on the matter that I'll send to Mr. Coolidge personally. Our new leader at the IOA doesn't take too kindly to aliens to begin with."

"How I deal with the people of this city is not under your purview and quite frankly, none of your concern." She parked a hip atop her desk. "Are we clear?"

"Crystal," Pratt hissed, getting up. "If that is all."

"Sit. Down," she ordered, taking two strides to block him.

Pratt was halfway out of his seat but he settled back down under her glare. He gave her one of his patented greasy smiles and said calmly, "Very well. You seem to have something on your mind."

"How about we start with the reason why you were in the infirmary in the first place?"

"To interview the only person who could shed some light on an inquiry I was sent to conduct."

"On the very first day of your arrival, you agreed that all interviews would go through me first."

"On the matter of scheduling personnel so it would not interfere with work load or daily operations. Colonel Sheppard is obviously not on the duty roster," Pratt replied callously.

The heartless disregard for the health of one of her people was infuriating. "And were you not told to consult Dr. Keller before speaking to Colonel Sheppard?"

"She wasn't available when I entered the infirmary. I even looked for a nurse, but they were all busy with that lab explosion. I didn't think it proper to distract them during an emergency."

He spoke like a true corporate mogul, the excuses and lies all second nature. Pratt was obviously a tyrant in the boardroom, but this wasn't some merger or hostile takeover. He was playing with human lives. "Yes, it was very convenient that your visit happened to coincide with something that occupied all of the medical staff."

"I'm not sure what you are implying, but I take--

"--Did it ever occur to you that one of the reasons why we insisted on the Colonel's physician being present was to determine if he was physically able to deal with your questions? And to monitor things if the stress affected him adversely?"

"I..." Pratt looked down at his lap and cleared his throat. "I didn't take that into as much consideration as I should have." He looked back up at her. "I certainly didn't want to cause him any harm. I asked Dr. Keller for an update and she assured me that Colonel Sheppard had suffered a minor seizure and was resting comfortably."

As long as Sheppard didn't suffer a permanent setback was all it took to clear the man's conscience. It was appalling.

"I'm making my own report on the incident, Mr. Pratt. And you are no longer allowed to question the Colonel without _my_ permission and Dr. Keller's. Is that understood?"

"With all due respect, Colonel Carter, I can't have my interview process dictated to me. Nor will I have Colonel Sheppard's testimony tainted, tampered or influenced by those around him."

"First off, we're dealing with the health of my top officer, a man who suffered his injuries while conducting business _for _the IOA. I won't condone actions that could trigger another medical incident. And secondly…" Sam gave herself a moment to calm down, still reeling from this man's gall. "Secondly, I do not like the implication of your last statement. Everyone on this base has fully cooperated with your investigation. There have been no attempts to alter anything and we've made all resources open to you."

Pratt shook his head, cocky grin curling his mouth. "I really had hoped to avoid this, but you leave me no choice. I cooperated with you concerning my interviews, making my time flexible in order for your people to carry on with their work. However, I did that as a courtesy, nothing more."

She couldn't believe her ears. "Excuse me?"

"Colonel Sheppard has head trauma that might affect him for a number of months for all we know. I'll be sure to be more studious of that when I question him again. And I will question him. When I want and as many times as it takes to find out the truth. And you have no say in the matter since you have no authority over me."

"I am the commander of this base: my authority covers military and civilian, including any guests, which you are."

"Your autonomy does not exceed mine in the course of this investigation. In fact, that is why I was called in. I might also add that Colonel Sheppard wasn't even made aware of Prince Fahd's death or my inquiry, which only proves to me that you were unwilling to go where this investigation needs to. Or put aside your own bias long enough to look at the big picture."

Sam didn't want to back pedal; her previous experiences dealing with the IOA confirmed that Pratt was correct about his power, but she couldn't be sure of the gray area. She needed to know where she could maneuver and couldn't risk exposing a weaker position. For right now, she was willing to give a little to gain the upper hand later.

"I'm new to this position, as you well know. I've been this city's commander for less than six months. What exactly is the big picture that you're referring to?"

Pratt clearly enjoyed control, was used to being in the driver's seat. Once it appeared that he had won his little power play, he resumed his smug posturing. "I'm not willing to say just yet. After all, I have not completed all avenues of inquiry."

"So, you've been making a lot of noise with no progress to show for it."

"I've been able to connect the dots that were right there in front of you," he said, oozing with overconfidence.

"I'm sorry, and what were those again?"

"That Colonel Sheppard was negligent. He flew into a storm that he was warned about after getting into an argument with Price Fahd on Dargara."

"And why would Colonel Sheppard do so such a thing?"

"To get back to the ship modifications that Dr. McKay was working on."

All this sounded flimsy and circumstantial to her ears. No, there had to be more. "Sounds like a nice theory, but I'm not hearing any evidence backing it up."

"Besides the complete lack of a mechanical failure? The only other thing that can bring down a jumper is an attack or pilot error. Considering the people of that planet have no weapons to speak of, it only leaves a human reason."

"If that is all you have, then it's not even enough to bring Colonel Sheppard up on charges."

"But I'm not finished with my investigation. When I'm done, I have little doubt that I'll be recommending to the IOA that Colonel Sheppard be relieved of his duties. He has a history of reckless behavior and poor choices that has led to countless deaths for this expedition and tragic loss in the Pegasus galaxy."

For once, Sam Carter was shocked into silence.

Pratt stood, planting an ass cheek on the opposite corner of her desk. "As you see, I don't have to follow criminal court guidelines. Just enough for a review board."

"What?"

Oh God, now it all made sense. Woolsey's warning, his inability to be involved in something that should have been black and white. Sam stood up, the weight of the dirty truth heavy upon her shoulders.

"You didn't come here just to look into a jumper crash? You came here to persecute Sheppard."

The IOA pit bull was silent, studying her reaction, allowing a slight bit of satisfaction sparkle in his eyes.

Like hell was she going to allow Sheppard's record be trampled over or his actions judged by a pencil pusher with no idea what the scary, universe was really like. "I won't allow a witch hunt to go on here."

"I'm sorry you think so. But since I govern under IOA jurisdiction, you don't have anything to say about it. Everything is fair game. Every bad decision, every reckless action that Colonel Sheppard has made during his tenure here." Pratt refastened the button of his jacket and adjusted his cuff links. "Now, let's not butt heads, Colonel. I'll give you the courtesy of knowing that as soon as Colonel Sheppard is able, I'll be conducting another interview."

Sam thought about warning him that once word got about his real reason for being here, Ronon Dex wouldn't be the only one to worry about.

"I'll show myself out, Colonel," Pratt said, smiling.

She needed to gather Sheppard's team together for a powwow, but first she had some research ahead of her. She'd had years of dealing with the IOA; there had to be something she could use to help John now and keep Pratt away from him. A loophole or a provision hidden within the miles of red tape.

She hurried behind her desk, pulled out her laptop and set to work. Finding a needle in a haystack was after all, her specialty.

* * *

John woke to voices over his bed.

"Colonel? … … I thought he was comin' around, Dr. Keller, but I can't get him to respond."

"Give him a minute, Lieutenant. This one might be tougher to come back from."

Well, the southern drawl was a giveaway and Keller's voice was one he'd grown accustomed to hearing in the place of the one that once used to greet him upon waking in the infirmary.

He considered responding, letting them know he was waking, but he was overcome with a heavy lethargy. The Air Force had instilled in him the ability to wake on command; when reveille played he could jump out of bed, be showered and shaved and ready to hit the ground running in ten minutes. But he hadn't always been that way. His father had always been on his ass about how hard it was to wake his youngest, especially on weekends.

It had been twenty five years but John could still remember how it felt. Cold winter mornings when the old man would want him up and working in the stables or helping him shovel the massive driveway - they had money but Patrick Sheppard would never hire someone to do something his two sons could do just fine, thank you very much. Built character, or something. John would hear his father's bellowing from the bottom of the stairs but he'd just turn on his side and snuggle deeper under the covers.

His mom would usually come up a few minutes later, her voice soft and imploring. _Please, Johnny. Don't make your father come up here._

He'd always gotten up for his mom.

So when he heard Keller's voice, soft, but firm, he made a genuine effort to open his eyes. With a groan he finally managed to lift his leaden lids but they dropped back down almost immediately.

"Nice try, Colonel," he heard Keller say, playfully sarcastic. "Come on, you can do it."

He rolled his head on his pillow and immediately moaned at the ache he felt in every part of his body. His gut stabbed with a pain it hadn't had in a while. And his joints were so sore, it was like he'd contracted whole body arthritis overnight.

He felt a hand placed gently on his arm. "Easy, Colonel. I just need to do a quick assessment and then I'll get you some ibuprofen. I'm thinking you're probably more than a little sore, huh?"

He opened his eyes once more to see the blurry face of Dr. Keller. He licked dry lips and nodded shortly. "Why? What …"

"You had a seizure," she answered calmly. She held her hand firmly in place on his arm when she felt him stir. "Just relax. It wasn't very long but it was rough while it lasted. The soreness is normal, and an anti-inflammatory should clear it right up."

She let go of his arm and stepped back to pull the blanket down to his hips. "I just want to check your incision, make sure you didn't pull any stitches. How's your belly feel?"

She pushed the gown aside and began prodding at the bandages; a sore spot made him wince but she seemed satisfied a short time later and tucked him back up again. It gave him the time he needed to formulate an answer from his still fuzzy brain. "'sokay."

"Good," Keller answered chipperly. "It looks pretty good, too. How's your head?"

Vision still blurry? Check. Ache behind his eyes that no rubbing could ease? Double check. But, instead of taking the effort to vocalize it, he just scowled and said, "Same."

Keller frowned and pulled her penlight from her coat pocket. She leaned over to thumb up John's eye but he pulled his head away and his scowl deepened. "Told you it was the same."

Keller regarded him for a moment and her face was close enough for him to see her features flicker from surprise to obvious concern; the furrow in her brow was so deep her eyebrows almost touched.

He waited for her to press the issue but instead she put the light away and leaned back, arms crossed over her chest. The gesture was so Carson, John's heart twinged. But back out of his range of sight she became a pink blob once again and not seeing the expression on her face made her easier to deal with.

"What happened in here?" she asked quietly. "Do you remember?"

He knew his previous seizures had left him with blank spots, stealing from him up to an hour or more of memory of time before the attack. Unfortunately, his slowly clearing head had retained every word, every sneer, every accusation the IOA ass had made.

"Yeah," was all he said.

"What happened?" she prompted him again. "I know that Pratt guy was in here but he won't say much beyond the fact that you two 'talked'. Mind telling me what you talked about?"

"Actually, yeah, I do mind."

Keller's eyebrows raised in surprise at his reply. "Whatever it was, it clearly upset you."

John was spared further explanation by the return of Lt. Harrison bearing a small paper cup and a water pitcher. The nurse filled his plastic tumbler and handed him the cup. At his questioning look she said, "Just ibuprofen, Colonel." He nodded and dropped the pills onto his tongue, washing them down with a swig on his straw.

It was amazing how just that minor activity had tired him. It was one of the things he hated worst about the seizures; the lethargy afterwards made him feel like he was moving through wet cement.

"You need anythin' else, Colonel?"

He turned his head at the nurse's voice, her face little more than a smear like melted chocolate in his messed up vision.

When he didn't answer right away she picked up his hand and checked his IV site, then stepped to the head of the bed to fluff his pillows and straighten his gown. Then she pulled an electronic thermometer out of her smock pocket and tried to bend his head away from her to get at his ear.

All the fussing and the touching was too much. His arm flew up and knocked her hand away; the thermometer clattered to the floor as she gasped. "I don't have a fever!" he growled. "I had a goddamned seizure!"

"Colonel!"

Keller's voice was sharp but concerned, with a questioning uptick at the end. She replaced the chart she'd been writing on at the foot of the bed and walked over to his side. Half-blind or not, he couldn't miss the unsubtle jerk of the head she gave to the nurse. The young woman swept up the fallen thermometer and then exited the area, pulling the curtain shut behind her.

"What's going on?" Keller asked him. She'd barely waited til the nurse had left; the chime of the metal curtain rings still hung in the air.

Unsure himself what had caused him to react so violently, John just set his jaw and tried to get his now racing heart back under control, each thump setting off an echo in his head and gut.

"I can't help you if I don't know what's going on, Colonel," Keller tried again. "Are you in pain?"

"Of course, I'm in pain," he spat back. "You try seizing after getting split down the middle. Throw in some head trauma for an extra good time."

She studied him for a moment, and when she finally spoke her voice was tightly controlled. "Why don't we see how you do on the ibuprofen. I'll check in on you later to see if you need more."

Biting back an extremely childish 'whatever' he just closed his eyes and turned his head away. When he heard her leave a moment later he let out a long breath. What the hell was wrong with him? He was angry. Angry at himself. Pissed as hell at his team. They'd kept Fahd's death from him, and even the allowance he made that they probably did it out of concern for him barely eased his resentment. That he needed to be protected rankled. _He_ was supposed to be the protector. And yet he was too fragile to even be told the truth. One lousy confrontation with an IOA asshole had been enough to send him into convulsions, for Pete's sake. Morosely, he considered the fact that he hadn't pissed himself a sorry reason to be thankful for a Foley.

Then voices outside his room broke into his gloomy thoughts; he could hear Rodney and the man was clearly launching into one of his rants.

_"Can someone please explain to me how that man got in there in the first place?"_

"_Rodney, keep your voice down." _It was Keller, her voice a harsh stage whisper.

_"Why? It's not like the damage hasn't already been done. What kind of place is this that strangers can just freely enter patient areas and torture them?"_

_"He didn't -- he must have gotten into the room during the crisis in the lab, Rodney. And he's not some stranger- he's a member of the IOA, here on SGC business."_

"_My point exactly! He's IOA. Half of them are Goa'uld, for god's sake. You have heard of The Trust, I assume? They cover that in your orientation?"_

"_Rodney…" _She sighed loudly. "_He's not Trust, he's here on official business. And I'm sorry that this happened, but--"_

"_No. No buts. You're CMO around here, you should start acting like it. Carson never would have let that man within ten kilometers of Sheppard."_

The next time Keller spoke, her voice was so low John missed most of her reply. "_… mood… depressed… … sorry…" _

Then both voices became too quiet for John to hear, but he figured he knew the gist of it. Carson's shadow loomed large over everything that Keller did; they all saw it, even if Rodney's bluster hadn't brought it out into the open.

Thoughts of the Scot, memories, regrets, flashes back to that Sunday ran through John's head. Carson was soon joined by Elizabeth. They weren't the only good people that had been lost but their deaths hurt the most. His father, a loss so recent and so raw he still hadn't really accepted it. And he couldn't help but feel guilt for all of them. Feel responsible for failing them, for failing to keep them safe. Like the way he'd allowed Fahd to be killed, Teyla to be so horribly wounded.

It was during this morbid accounting that he heard the curtain get pushed back. He peeled open his eyes to see Rodney standing at his bedside.

"You could try knocking, McKay."

"Knocking on what? You have no door!"

"It's courtesy, McKay! Before you enter, you knock, not barge in."

"Since when did you become Les Nessman? You have no door! You have movable fabric walls and no door. Besides, I asked to make sure they weren't… washing… or changing… anything."

He pulled over a chair and sat down, cocked his head to the side and stared at John. "Keller said you were a bear. I'd say more grizzly, or maybe that bear from _Prophecy_? Twenty feet tall and mutated by mercury poisoning?"

"Not funny, Rodney," John grumbled.

"No, the movie was actually kind of sad," Rodney continued unfazed. "You know Talia Shire is carrying Robert Foxworth's mutant spawn in her belly."

"Still not funny, Rodney. Why are you here?"

"Why am I - I'm visiting. I would've thought that pretty obvious, even for the recently brain damaged."

"Well, I'm not in the mood for visitors. So consider this crossed off your list of duties for the day and leave."

"Duty? Where the hell did that come from? Look, Sheppard, I know you've been through a rough time but--"

"--Not _been_, McKay. Am having. Still. No past tense about it."

Rodney almost literally bit his tongue, squirming visibly as he fought the retort on his lips. Then he stilled and sat forward, his voice lowered. "What did Pratt say to you that has you so riled up?"

"Nothing that I shouldn't have heard from _you_, McKay."

"Oh, really? And what, pray tell, is that?"

"Don't bullshit me, McKay! You know exactly what I'm talking about. I crashed the damn jumper and killed Fahd."

Rodney leaned back and crossed his arms. "Yes, the jumper crashed, and yes, His Royal Pain in the Ass was killed. I'm sorry to be so callous, but so what? You'll get better, Teyla's already back in the gym practicing one handed yoga, and the world has one less spoiled rich guy. What's got your johnny in such a twist?"

"_So what_? You know, McKay, for being such a genius, you sure can be stupid," John sneered. "Fahd was a VIP. The SGC and the IOA tend to get pissed when we let visitors die. And yeah, he was a jerk, but he was still human; he had family. Jesus, he coulda had a wife, kids--"

"--He didn't. Trust me, we were all regaled during his visit with every one of his sexual exploits and no wife or rugrats were mentioned. And yeah, maybe he had family. Even Hitler had a mom and dad," he added bitterly.

"He wasn't Hitler! He was a jerk. Opinionated, obnoxious, and full of himself. Sound familiar, McKay? Think real hard!"

"You can insult me as much as you like. If it makes you feel better, then have at it. You're pissed we didn't tell you, I get that. But it was only because we didn't want you to freak out, and oh, look what happened. Be angry. Rant and rage all you want. After you're done chewing my ass out I can send in Ronon and Teyla. And then Sam and Keller. Because we all agreed it would be the right thing to do."

John's head was pounding and his gut churned with acid under the ache of the incision. He'd lost all control of his emotions, was lashing out at all the wrong people. Because it was him. It was all him. They were trying to protect him, because he'd fucked up. It was his doing, all of it, and here everyone was doing their best to protect poor, fragile John.

The yearning to just go away, to hide beneath a morphine haze, close his aching eyes and check out for a good long while was an allure he just couldn't beat back anymore. God, he longed for the solitude of his quarters. Pull the curtains, shut the lights off, curl up and sleep for a week. And the door would be locked.

"Just go, Rodney," he said, all fight deflating from him. "And tell Keller her ibuprofen isn't doing shit and I need something real."

And with that he closed his eyes and turned his head away on his pillow.

It was another thirty seconds before he heard the slide of the chair legs on the tile as Rodney got up and left the room in silence.

* * *

"Well, that was more fun than a prostate exam. I think dental surgery would still be preferable, though."

Keller looked up at Rodney's decidedly colorful analogy. "I did warn you."

"You said he was moody. Not that he'd gone Dark Side."

Keller nodded knowingly at him then gestured to a chair in her office, urging him in from the doorway he'd been leaning against. Once Rodney had situated himself she pulled up a screen on her computer, turning the screen out of his view as what looked like journal entries popped up.

"I was thinking… after our 'talk' earlier."

Rodney averted his eyes and folded his arms defensively. "Yes, well… about that. I'm sorry. The Carson comment was… well, it wasn't necessary."

Her smile seemed kind of sad but he thought he read forgiveness in it. At least, he hoped he did. "I miss him, too," was her quiet answer. Then she tapped on the computer screen. "But I am kinda glad for your… I_mention/I_ of Carson. Since my time here as CMO I haven't had the pleasure of the colonel's company very often. Not! That I'm saying that's a bad thing," she added, her hands waving wildly in the air in front of her.

"Of course not," Rodney quickly assured her, his own hands miming her motions.

Keller rolled her eyes in that self-deprecating way she had - it made her look five years younger and really emphasized the Doogie Howserette impression she often made. Rodney couldn't decide if he found it exasperating or endearing.

Stilling her hands only for a moment, she then began ticking off her fingers. "He had a GSW to the arm. I patched it up and sent him home that day. Another GSW, the other arm, that one needed surgery- he still went home in three days. Throw in the observation after we cardioverted him--"

"Yes- no need to rehash that, thanks," Rodney interrupted. His hand went involuntarily to his chest; the ache from the paddles had lingered for days.

"Sorry." She bit her lip against a smile then resumed her count. "Two days with the Keirson fever. Assorted muscle strains, cracked ribs, contusions, that nasty abrasion that took all the skin off his --"

"--Yes, yes, we all know he's Colonel Calamity. Get to the point."

"The point, Rodney, is that for every injury, his convalescence was so brief as to be almost non-existent. The only times I can think of where he spent any extended amount of time in the infirmary were while Carson was still his primary caregiver. So…" She tapped meaningfully on the computer screen again. "I accessed Carson's journal records. They're observations mostly. Kinda dry- 'the patient's O2 sats rose to a satisfactory level after a nasal cannula was added' kinda stuff. But he's also got personal notes in there."

She slumped a bit in her chair and pushed her hair behind her ear. "They were sorta hard to read; I swear I could hear his accent even though he used the Queen's English in writing them. Anyway," she continued, straightening to look at him, "he talks about Colonel Sheppard entering an 'ornery' phase." She hooked her fingers in the air as emphasis. "Going back, it seems to hit at the same time, every time. He's well enough that he's awake for longer periods of time, yet he isn't ambulatory yet. So he's basically stuck. In limbo. Actually, it's probably more like Hell for the colonel. Not bad off enough to sleep through it, not well enough to shake it off and get back to work."

Rodney held up a finger. "Ah, but I was there for every time. I think I would remember Dr. Jekyll in there."

"No, Rodney, you wouldn't," she said quietly. "In fact, you always got Mr. Hyde, to continue your metaphor. Colonel Sheppard always made it a point to put on a good show for you all. But I guess he used to let Carson have it, sometimes with both barrels. Carson never questioned it, never even had a harsh word in his notes. He just took it all on himself."

She sighed. "Once again, Carson shows his vast superiority over my feeble attempts at care giving. I just wish I could channel him somehow - figure out what the colonel needs to get through this."

"Oh, please, God, don't channel Carson. That's all we need is a swelled head Scot haunting the infirmary, mother henning us from Beyond."

Her smile was grateful. "Yeah, why disturb him, huh? He's probably got a fish on the line…"

"And a lassie on each arm," Rodney finished. "So. CMO Keller. What do we do about this?"

She blew her hair from off her forehead with a tired exhale but she punched a few keys on the computer, returning the screen to the Medical sign in.

"Well," she said, slapping her thighs with renewed energy. "We let him vent, first of all. We have an idea what's going on, we just… steel ourselves for the inevitable abuse. We work on getting him up and mobile again, but in the meantime we keep him as stress free as possible. I'll talk to Lt. Harrison, make sure she's in the loop. I'll see about decreasing his vital checks; they're kinda perfunctory anyway what with the monitors, but I tend to be a hands on doctor. We give him space when he wants it and targets when he needs them."

She scratched at the bridge of her nose in thought. "I wish we could get him more mobile, but his hip still won't support much weight and his vision still limits him. Maybe you could ask Ronon to drop by more often in the mornings when he's stronger? If the big guy takes one side, he can probably support the colonel better - might enable him a little more distance."

"Like Conan's gonna say no," Rodney said dryly. "What can I do?"

"Just be yourself, Rodney," she said with the first genuine grin she'd had since he'd entered. "If anyone makes a good whipping boy for the colonel, it's you."


	11. Chapter 11 of 22

Authors' note: We're at the halfway point, kids. And Kristen and I just wanted to take a few lines to say thanks for sticking with us so far. The feedback is great; there really is no better 'payment' for a fic writer than hearing what you liked and why, and getting the constructive criticism to help us fine tune things and make it better for everyone. Thanks again. and now... back to the story!

* * *

The Atlantis infirmary didn't bother Ronon; it made him want to fight for the fallen and keep the enemy from sending his friends there. The antiseptic odors, sterile white walls and beds filled with people at their weakest point were all familiar. His days spent with Melena had desensitized him to the sights and sounds that made McKay green around the gills. Quality time was a rare commodity for a soldier and a nurse, so he'd often helped out, just to be in the same room with her. Long days and nights taught him about compassion for the sick and wounded. Today he would once again be a part of the healing process and it was going to take every hard earned lesson to do it.

He clutched the pair of slippers between his large hands and stood in front of the fabric barrier. "Sheppard."

"Yeah?" came a growl in response.

His greeting wasn't an request for an invitation; it was more a courtesy based on warnings about the colonel's foul mood. Feeling satisfied that was enough, Ronon pulled the curtain aside. "You're supposed to walk more today."

Sheppard lay in bed, sunglasses staring up at the ceiling without glancing his direction. The pilot's face was haggard and drawn, a day's worth of beard aging him several years. The lack of movement to get ready or acknowledgment of his presence only stirred the fire.

"Come on, stop being lazy," Ronon said, pulling down the sheet. "Get your ass up."

"If that's your motivational technique, I'd reconsider it," Sheppard huffed, pushing upwards with arms that trembled with the effort. "Doesn't work on me," he continued, despite the fact that it clearly did.

Ronon folded down the pile of linen and lowered the railing without a word, watching out of the corner of his eye as Sheppard struggled to swing his legs over the side of the bed. After two attempts, the colonel sat hunched over and gripped the edge of mattress to keep from falling. Ronon bent down and slid the slippers with the grippy soles onto the pilot's feet.

Sheppard jerked his legs in response with a startled grunt. He peered down, still panting from his earlier exertion and his scowl deepened. "You... have… a leash, too?"

"If it makes this easier, I'll get one," Ronon said, fully aware that the colonel knew the drill. He waited, knowing that the colonel's caregiver was supposed to be here to help.

Sheppard had other ideas and glared. "What are we waiting for?"

"Your nurse, so you can have someone on each side."

"Don't need it."

"Sheppard."

"Either help me or go away."

Ronon sized up the situation, the defiant bearing of his friend and sheer determination to go on without any additional aid. He knew that he could handle all of Sheppard's weight and that this was an act of rebellion and pure frustration at being so dependent on others. "Fine. Guess I'll catch you if you fall."

There was no snappy retort so he rolled over the IV stand, gathering all the tubes and hanging them properly. He eased a shoulder over to support his friend's weight, carefully wrapping his arm above the layers of gauze around the pilot's middle. Sheppard slung his arm around his neck and they both rose in unison. Ronon felt Sheppard falter and tip to the side. He waited, allowing his friend to gulp heavily and regain his equilibrium enough to begin shuffling.

"I'm fine. Let's go."

"You can push your pole," Ronon ordered.

Sheppard responded by shoving it along with a few careless slaps. After leaving the cubicle and walking at a painfully slow pace, the colonel began using the stand as a rolling crutch.

"Don't think it's meant to take on much weight," Ronon commented.

"And you're not a nurse. What's... your point?" Sheppard grouched in between pants for air.

Ronon didn't answer, just let the man continue his pain-filled shuffle across the floor.

The walk was silent, but it didn't bother Ronon much; convalescence and fighting to gain your strength back wasn't the time for small talk. Sheppard pushed his limits, forcing both feet to take on his full weight, but his steps were cautious, everything obviously jarring or pulling on barely healed flesh. Ronon intimately understood the pain of trying to stand fully with a wound to the gut. After all, Dr. Weir had put a bullet through him while under the control of an alien entity only a year ago. But if they were to compare scars, he was sure the pilot's would be more impressive.

A heavy limp plagued the mobility of Sheppard's right side and despite obvious attempts to maintain an equal balance, his friend was forced to lean heavily for support. Ronon felt the quivering muscles and heard groans of pain with each step.

"There's a chair over here," he directed, pointing at one in a far corner and out of the way.

"No, I'm good."

Forcing the body to mend when it wasn't ready only caused set-backs. Ronon understood his CO, knew exactly what he was doing and why. He'd done the exact same thing and paid for it later, letting his friends down when he'd overdone things. "It wasn't a suggestion."

Sheppard was one stubborn SOB, digging his slipper covered feet into the tile. "You ordering me around now?"

"Either you walk or I carry you."

"In a span of a week everyone suddenly decides my life by committee," Sheppard snapped, heading towards the chair. He sat heavily, hand wrapped protectively around his middle. "Surprised you guys have time... for anything else."

Ronon watched him remove his shades, massaging his eyes before slipping them back on. "I'm not going to feel bad about watching your back."

Sheppard stiffened. "Yeah, who would have thought I'd need that in here," he said bitterly.

It took every ounce of self control to keep cool, almost wishing he'd exercised a little less restraint the other day with Pratt. A place to heal shouldn't be dangerous; it was outrageous that their military leader could be subjected to scrutiny while fighting to get back on his feet. The hardest thing was trying to protect someone who normally wielded the weapons for others. He knew their acts of security on the colonel's behalf stung, and doing things behind his back was an even lower blow.

"Know when you'll get out?" Ronon asked to keep from thinking too much.

It was a sore subject apparently since Sheppard picked that moment to try to stand after only a few minutes of rest. "Let's head back now," he said between clenched teeth.

Rising too quickly with a bad hip and weakened body was a disastrous combination. Sheppard swayed, right leg buckling, and Ronon reached out to steady him.

"I don't want your help!" Sheppard hissed, batting his hand away.

Apparently the 'battle axe' happened to be nearby and ran over to assist. "What are you doing, trying to walk around without the proper number of people, Colonel? Are you trying to make everyone's life difficult?"

The older nurse ignored Sheppard's protests, giving Ronon an earful about a staff of trained professionals who happened to know how to do their jobs. The litany of admonishments was non-stop all the way back to the ICU area. Once they got there, Lt Harrison swooped in and took over Ronon's side and got her patient back in bed while getting all his lines situated.

"He certainly is a handful, Cadence," the other nurse said, shaking her head.

The lieutenant took one look at her CO's demeanor and ushered her co-worker out of the private area. "Let's go; the colonel doesn't need any of your gabbing."

Ronon folded his arms, giving himself a mental slap. Sheppard didn't look at him, the rosy color of his cheeks fading back to normal after the humiliation. "You know sulking isn't going to help."

He watched hands ball into fists, Sheppard's jaw clenching tight enough to leave an ache trying to keep a lid on all the emotions boiling underneath.

"You're pissed."

Stating the obvious didn't do the trick either.

"Maybe McKay's right. You really can't handle all of this now."

If there was a way to measure the speed of losing one's temper, the colonel broke the record. "Handle things?" Sheppard growled, facing him. "What I can't _handle_ is my team conspiring behind my back because my head's so screwed up that it might implode if a pin drops. Or that I killed a freaking dignitary because I flew into a storm and I have to find out from some IOA asshole!"

Sheppard's complexion was burning red again, spittle flying from his lips between gasping breaths. "Maybe I'm pissed because I can't walk without _two _freaking people helping me. Or that I can't see worth shit and I have to wear these damn things!"

The colonel practically ripped his sunglasses away from his face and threw them across the cubicle, the shades clattering on the tile floor. One of those machines was getting loud again and only raised the ire of the ticked off pilot. "And _these _stupid things keep beeping and hollering any time I'm not quiet as a mouse. I'm sick of feeling like a damn fragile porcelain doll that might break if held too hard."

Ronon sent the Lieutenant away with a shake of his head but she hovered nearby, listening until the noisy equipment grew quiet again. Sheppard's breathing came under control and he slumped back against his pillows, rubbing his temples. "Ow."

"Feel better now?"

The colonel kneaded his temples, blowing out a long breath. "Yeah."

"Good," Ronon sighed, walking over and picking up the sunglasses. "They're not broken," he said in amazement, handing them back.

"Small miracles," Sheppard muttered, putting them back on. He fidgeted, still obviously working out the pain. "Um... we still good?"

"Always."

* * *

Ronon was summoned by Colonel Carter during dinner. He ignored her request for a hasty meeting, content to finish his meal at a nice leisurely pace first. When Teyla snapped in his ear about getting his butt over to the far western pier, he put his tray away. McKay's voice hissed in his ear next and by the time the man was finished with his diatribe, Ronon had stepped out of the transporter. He blended in with the shadows, following them out into the night sky and into what appeared to be a secret meeting.

"Glad you could make it," Carter nodded.

She was dressed in a dark top and pants, further adding to the feel of a covert operation. Ronon was instantly alert, eyes scanning the darkness for anything suspicious as he leaned against the railing. "What's going on?"

"Yes, we'd all like to know the reason for all this slinking around," McKay snapped.

Teyla cooled his tongue with a glare as she looked to Carter. "Why don't we allow the colonel to talk. I'm sure she wouldn't bring us all together unless it was important."

A cool breeze blew in off the lapping waves below, causing the conspiring group to huddle closer. Teyla pulled a shawl closer around her to ward off the chill; McKay just grew antsier.

Carter scanned the faces before her and took a deep breath. "I'm sorry for the inconvenience of this but I felt it was important." She had everyone's attention and forged ahead. "I had an interesting meeting with Richard Pratt yesterday in my office. And based on what I learned from that discussion, I felt this merited precautions."

Ronon seized on the undercurrent of her tone and never tore his gaze away, accusing her with it for whatever had gone wrong.

Carter never flinched, the others urging her on in silence. "Based on my conversation, I've learned that Pratt is using the jumper crash as an excuse for a wider scope to his investigation."

"What are you talking about?" McKay exclaimed. "What _wider _scope?"

Carter looked the scientist directly in the eye, poised and serene. "For reasons unclear to me, he's going to review all of Colonel Sheppard's _questionable_ command decisions."

McKay's eyes widened and he cradled his bandaged hand while the gears spun in his head. "That's… that's ridiculous. On what grounds? I mean..." His jaw dropped, momentarily lost for words, face haunted. "No, no this is preposterous. Questionable choices are made every freaking day around here."

Teyla watched her friend's continued agitation in concern and tried to steer the conversation back on track. "I don't understand. I thought Mr. Pratt came here to look into the crash. Does he not have that case to occupy his time with?"

"He seems fully convinced that Colonel Sheppard is responsible for the crash despite a lack of physical evidence to back it up."

"I thought you told us your laws required proof," Ronon spoke up for the first time. "It was an accident, we all know that. What happened to all those fancy rules you guys follow?"

Carter turned to him, still unfazed by his angry tone. "We're not talking about courts. He wants Colonel Sheppard to face a review board. Different rules."

"Sounds like you people change things just to suit your own needs," Ronon charged.

"And he can just do this?" Teyla asked, stepping forward. "Look into anything he wishes?"

"Yes, he represents the IOA in this matter. I have no authority over him." Carter peered at the ground, steeling her resolve before looking up. "He took over one of the rooms in the command center as his office. He's spent the last two days going over mission reports."

"This is a nightmare," McKay moaned. "He'll find whatever he wants to crucify Sheppard with."

"Why?" Ronon growled, pushing off the rail. He didn't swear allegiances to politics and this stank of_ drenk_ associated with governments and bureaucracy. The last time he'd looked, Atlantis was a last stand in this galaxy. Not exactly a place for confusing laws. "You act like Sheppard's done something wrong when all he's done is fought a war."

"Yeah, well where we come from, people who've never been on the battlefield tend to make up a lot of rules about what to do there." McKay looked over at Carter's slightly amused expression. "What? So, I've been hanging with Sheppard too long. He does have a decent point every once in a while."

Teyla rubbed gently over her belly in a calming gesture. "Whatever the reasons,; there must be something we can do."

"I agree and that is why I brought you together," Carter said with her chin up.

Ronon figured the easiest way to solve the problem involved unsavory methods, but decided to keep quiet.

"I think we should continue our original investigation into the crash and find a way to clear Colonel Sheppard."

McKay rolled his eyes. "You mean the search that was going nowhere?"

"Yes, Rodney. We need to look harder and find a way to exonerate him," Carter said patiently.

"Oh, okay. If by some act of God we find the real reason for the crash, that helps us how?"

Ronon agreed for once with McKay and waited for whatever 'insightful' reply the colonel might have.

"He's using the crash as a baseline for examples of reckless behavior." Carter held up a finger to quiet Rodney. "If we can provide the real reason for the crash, then it eliminates his avenue for further inquiry. The IOA won't listen to charges to events that they've already sanctioned, but if they're presented as part of a pattern of poor choices, then they might."

"Sheppard becomes a scapegoat for every disaster that's happened, even if his crazy plans have saved the city more times than I could count," McKay seethed.

It was too bad Sheppard didn't get this type of praise from Rodney more often, Ronon thought. "So, we find the reason for the crash and it ends this whole thing."

"In simple terms. Yes," Carter answered.

"And in less simple terms?" Teyla pressed.

"We have to do this without Pratt finding out."

"I should have killed him," Ronon let slip. He met Carter's exasperated eyes. "Just saying it'd be easier."

"Oh, goody. While we play cloak and dagger with the IOA, we have to worry about murder plots, too."

"Then don't worry about it," Ronon told McKay.

"Enough. We have to work together on this," Teyla commanded. "What else?" she asked the colonel.

A harder gust of wind sent a slight mist over the dreary group, compounding the growing heavy air around them.

Carter sighed in relief but it was short-lived. "I'm concerned about John."

"You mean Lord Vader?"

Teyla smacked Rodney's shoulder. "He has been through a great deal and is very frustrated and I'm sure scared about what has happened to him. The colonel spends too much energy trying to show us how strong he is when he doesn't need to. We should allow him the space to deal with his pain."

"I let him yell at me earlier and he seemed better," Ronon announced.

"I let him scream at me," McKay grumbled.

"I'm well aware of Colonel Sheppard's recent mood change after Pratt interviewed him," Carter interrupted. "I'm more worried about a repeat performance of what happened immediately afterwards."

"His seizure," Teyla said softly.

"There is no doubt that his stress levels affect his current health. Dr. Keller informed me that John may still experience migraines and seizures despite monitoring and medication. And he's suffered some pretty severe attacks as a result of upsetting encounters."

"I didn't mean to cause him that thunderclap headache," McKay defended.

"I wasn't laying blame, Rodney," Carter sighed.

This was another circle of frustration for Ronon. The need to battle an invisible enemy. "Don't let him near Sheppard. Post guards; do whatever it takes."

"It's not that simple," Carter replied.

Ronon rested his hand over his blaster, taking a step forward. "Why not?"

"Ronon…" Teyla placed a hand on his shoulder in warning. "This is not helping."

He hated all these insufferable roadblocks and ran his hands over his dreads in anger. "Just tell me what I can do!" he growled, whirling around on them.

"I will, give me a chance," Carter implored. She waited as the team gathered themselves and gave her their collective attention. "Pratt made it clear that he intends to question the colonel despite my and Dr Keller's protests. And before any of you jump in, there is nothing that can be done to keep him from going into the infirmary."

"Oh, that's perfect. We don't have to worry about conducting black ops secret investigations because Sheppard will be dead when his brain leaks out of his ears," McKay snapped.

Teyla rested her sling over her swollen abdomen, closing her eyes. "Rodney, please."

"That's why I think we should move him to his quarters," Carter reasoned.

McKay waved his uninjured hand. "Excuse me? I'm sorry, think I need to get my ears examined. Are we talking about the same half-blind and barely can walk colonel who has more stitches holding him together than my double layered socks?"

"With proper medical precautions I think that it's the best scenario."

Teyla studied Carter's expression. "You said Pratt could go into the infirmary."

For once the colonel smiled. "Yes, but he is not allowed to enter a person's quarters without their permission. He can't force his way in either."

"I thought he could do whatever he wanted?" Ronon asked confused.

"This is a mixed civilian and military operation and the city is a unique kind of sovereign ground. Pratt, as a member of the IOA, can enter any part of the expedition as he pleases, except personal quarters. That's protected," Carter explained with a smile.

"Sheppard's military though," McKay butted in. "He's not subject to civilian protections."

"You're right. If Pratt were higher ranked than Colonel Sheppard or if he represented the military in this investigation, he could go into John's quarters if he pleased."

McKay snapped his fingers, beaming. "You found some stupid rule."

"Yes, I did. And I look forward to showing Mr. Pratt that very regulation when I hand it to him tomorrow."

For the first time in days Ronon was impressed with Carter. "I'd like to see that."

"Is John not still very ill?" Teyla asked, clearly worried.

Her question sobered the mood. Ronon pictured the pain and difficulty of his friend's mobility and didn't like the idea of leaving Sheppard unsupervised. As much as he hated seeing his team leader there, the man belonged under care.

It seemed Carter had this covered as well. One thing was for sure, she'd done a lot of work before organizing this meeting. "I spoke to Dr. Keller. She, of course, has many reservations but after discussing the seriousness of the circumstances has agreed."

"I'm sure Sheppard won't complain," McKay snorted. "I think he's crawling the walls by now."

"Keller's arranging for a heavy rotation of visits from designated nurses. I've also been advised that Dr. Pirogov might have something that will help aid John's vision until the head trauma resolves itself."

"That's good news," Ronon said in all honesty.

"Yes, it is," Carter replied softly.

"That still leaves the dilemma of telling him the real reason for his release. I'm not sure how Sheppard might feel being, well..." McKay struggled for the appropriate words.

"Coddled," Ronon added.

"Yes, that's it. Considering his 'rebellious' nature of late, he might not take too kindly to being guarded from a menacing paper pusher whose deadly weapon is a tape recorder," McKay reminded them all.

Teyla swept a sad gaze at them all, wordlessly answering the question even before voicing it. "We'll do whatever it takes to help John during this crisis. He'll forgive us later."

Ronon rubbed the bare parts of his arms exposed to the chilly air. He didn't like what they were planning and deplored the whole stupid situation to begin with. But he'd do it and accept the consequences.

* * *

_Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense._

John dropped the book in his lap and sighed while he rubbed at the bridge of his nose. It had taken him a full minute to read two sentences and he was practically sweating with the effort to keep focused on the words.

But much like his forced marches around the infirmary, courtesy of a really annoyingly helpful Ronon (and he was certain Keller was behind it), John was determined to work through the pain. Of course, now his hip ached abominably and Keller had retired him to bed for the evening with what she called extra-strength ibuprofen and an ice pack. And Lord knows it's always nice to have something frosty snuggled up against your bare skin in bed.

So he picked the book back up, flipping to the opening pages, then turning it over to look at the cover. A rather goofy looking kid with a lightning bolt scar on his forehead was (rather improbably) riding a broom, his scarf flung out behind him like Isadora Duncan, his glasses askew on his face.

Across the bottom was a sticker bearing the words, "Large Print". Apparently not large enough, John noted.

With a sigh he flipped the massive tome back over and regained his place in chapter one, page one.

_Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did have a very large moustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbours. The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere._

"I can't believe people read this crap," he muttered grumpily. "Who the hell names their kid Dudley Dursley?"

"You have not even seen the best of them, my good Colonel!"

Pirogov's form loomed at the entrance to John's room, the jovial Russian poking his head in through the gap in the curtains. "I am, of course, partial to Viktor Krum. Good Bulgarian name!"

"I'm sure it is, doc," John said dryly. "Come on in. You can put me outa my misery."

"Bah!" the neurologist scoffed as he filled the room with his bulk. "Is not misery. Is Harry Potter. Trust me… you will find yourself as addicted as the rest of the world soon enough. Is like your crap cocaine, yes?"

John chuckled as he closed the book and put in on his bed table. "Dunno about the cocaine part, doc, but the crap part maybe. Besides," he added, rubbing roughly at his eyes again, "it's kinda hard to get addicted to a book when it takes an hour to get through a page."

"I must agree, Colonel. Is why I have brought you a little gift."

John stopped rubbing his eyes to stare expectantly at the neurologist. "Is this another Ancient testing thingy gift? Because I'm not really up for it, doc."

The Russian shook his head, frizzy curls swaying in the breeze kicked up. "No, no, Colonel. Not a test. A gift."

Then he pulled something from his jacket pocket, bowed at the waist and offered them to John with a flourish.

John reached slowly for the proffered object; he was curious but strangely reluctant to take them. And if asked, he couldn't have said why.

He took the item in hand, then sat back in bed to open what turned out to be black plastic framed glasses. The frame itself was heavy, clearly institutional in origin. And the lenses were thick, magnifying the fingers that held them. A rainbow of color showed at the edges.

"Prismatic lenses," Pirogov explained at John's openly intrigued examination. "They are good for low vision myopics. The secret is in the prism." He held his hands apart at his chest then drew them together as he pushed them away. "It acts as focusing aid. Narrows your field, yes? You try them on."

John raised eyebrows at the unclear explanation but turned them about to place them on his face.

He had known they would be heavy, but compared to the thin metal and wire frames of his aviators it was like they were made of lead.

He lifted his gaze and sucked in a gasp. Pirogov wore a tweed jacket that looked like he'd owned it since the fifties. His tie was baby shit brown against a mustard yellow shirt. And he wore a giddy, yellow-toothed smile from ear to ear.

"Once you were blind, but now you see, eh, Colonel?"

"It's…" John turned his head to take in the rest of the room and had to squeeze his eyes shut against the smeary blur.

"Ah! Not so fast, not so fast, Colonel," Pirogov said chidingly. "Very powerful lenses and good for straight ahead." His hand sliced through the air in illustration. "You will make yourself very dizzy, like pulling too many G's, yes?"

"Yes," John gasped. He eased his eyes open slowly and allowed his eyes to focus through the odd lenses again. Slowly, with great trepidation, he reached over and picked up the discarded book.

He flipped open to a random page and began reading slowly. A moment later he looked up with a small smile on his face. "What the hell is a Muggle?"

"Ah, sir, that I would not ruin for you. I am happy to see the glasses are good for you. They are working good, no?"

"No- I mean, yes. They are working… Good.. For me," John stammered. He rubbed his finger under the frames where they sat on his nose, then dropped his hand down tiredly.

"You should rest," Pirogov observed. "I go now. But I will be back. Maybe you will feel 'up' to using my 'Ancient testy thingy' tomorrow morning, hm? We try out new glasses with real challenge, yes?"

"Yeah, sure, doc." He took the frames off and folded them in his lap, allowing the room to wash back to blurred shadows.

"And thanks. These were a real gift."

"Do not thank just me, Colonel. I had helper. Most intelligent man. A true genius. He took my instructions and worked magic with an old pair of safety glasses."

John blinked. "McKay?"

The Russian let out one of his trademark wheezy chuckles. "No… Dr. Zelenka. What a Renaissance man. A man of many talents, my good Colonel. And his homebrewed _wodka_ is… _prost__ě__ bo__ž__ská. _Truly Heaven sent."

"I'll make sure to thank him, too, next time I see him, doc. You, uh… you think I'll hafta wear these for long?" Forever was what he was really thinking.

Pirogov played with the end of his beard and considered his words. "I am a scientist, Colonel. I prefer not to make conjectures without objective findings. We shall see how testing goes in the morning. Then I may better be able to give you answers you seek, yes?"

John nodded unenthusiastically, decidedly disappointed in the response. "Sure, doc. Tomorrow then."

"Good. Then I shall say _spokoinoi nochi_."

"Yeah, night, doc."

The Russian left John alone again. The neurologist was right. He was tired, exhausted by little more than reading a fricking book. With a sigh, he let the cover of the still open book shut and leaned his head back into his pillows. His gaze passed over the goofy boy on the broom… and the geeky glasses the kid wore and he chuckled tiredly. Maybe he could find an Ancient flying broom…


	12. Chapter 12 of 22

"You wanted to see me, Dr. Keller?"

Jennifer looked up at the sound of the lieutenant's voice. "Yeah, Cadence, thanks. I'm getting the colonel ready for discharge." She gestured with her stylus at the data pad in front of her. "I was just going over some of his most recent stats."

The nurse nodded in response but remained standing at attention, hands folded behind her. Most of Jennifer's nursing staff was civilians, but the lieutenant had come over a month or so ago, and still maintained her Air Force bred formality. It had taken two weeks for Keller to stop calling her Lieutenant, and that was only at the nurse's insistence that it was okay since the doc was a civilian. Plus, 'Lieutenant Harrison' could be a mouthful when the doc needed her there, stat.

"His last ICP readings are looking better," Jennifer commented.

"Yes, ma'am," Cadence answered with a grin. "And those new glasses Dr Pirogov got for him seem to be helping with his vision deficit." The grin broadened. "I can tell because his aim is better."

Jennifer winced but understood. Cadence had been a real team player. As his primary care nurse she'd been on the front line for much of the colonel's frustration, but she'd been a real trouper, absorbing the angry outbursts and keeping her cool.

"Well, you'll be out of the line of fire soon enough. Go ahead and remove the Foley- maybe that'll put a smile on his face. And I have a list of supplies to send along with him to his room." She picked up the data pad and handed it over.

Cadence scanned it quickly, nodding to herself. "Yes, ma'am. Will you be needing help with his transfer?"

Jennifer smiled. "Nope." She shot her wrist forward and checked her watch. "In fact, his taxi should be here any minute."

* * *

Her prediction regarding the improvement in John's demeanor was thankfully true. By the time she arrived in his room for a final check over, the box of supplies she'd requested had been parked in a corner and the colonel was sitting on the side of the bed, swinging his feet anxiously, but there was an ease in the normal tension in his face.

"I'm guessing you're a little bit eager to get out of here, Colonel."

He pushed the heavy glasses back into place from where they'd slipped off the bridge of his nose. "No offense, doc, but hell yeah."

She smiled in response. "None taken. Well, maybe a little. I mean, we are an infirmary, not the Four Seasons. But, I hope you know we do the best we can with it."

John had the decency to look a bit embarrassed, casting his eyes at the floor. As his head dipped the glasses fell forward and he pushed them back up with an annoyed shove. Then he looked up, squinting through the thick lenses at her. "What I do know is that you saved my life." His hand ran over the front of his gown, tracing the healing incision that ran underneath it, and swallowed. "It's still a little… unreal. Knowing I was flayed open and you were poking around in my guts." He swallowed again, more roughly. "Twice. But I'm still here, and I'm headed home. And I know you are the reason for that. So, thank you."

She was touched by his words, but was also determined to make this transition go as smoothly as possible for him. She had her reservations about him leaving, had discussed them at length with Colonel Carter. But in the end, she'd agreed to the plan. Even if part of the reason for her concession was her lingering guilt over the fact that Pratt had caused so much damage in her infirmary and silent agreement with Rodney's accusation that it never would have happened if Carson had still been in charge.

"All part of the cover charge, Colonel," she said brightly. "All right, you aren't out of my clutches, yet. Your ride will be here soon so let's give you one more look over for old time's sake, okay?"

He snorted out a soft laugh but nodded and allowed her help in stretching back out on the bed.

He took his glasses off and held them while she dashed the penlight over each eye; she was able to note that his pupils were almost back to equal and reactive, the sluggish one's delay almost so slow as to be imperceptible.

Once she was satisfied with his neuro checks she moved down the bed to ease his gown aside and check his incision. The wound had been left uncovered by bandages in the hopes of letting the air circulate and she was pleased to see there was healthy pink flesh beginning to form under the heavy scabbing.

Continuing her head to toe exam she made her way to the end of the bed and picked up his right foot. Her one hand braced him under his heel and the other wrapped around his sole. John knew the drill. With a slow inhale he pulled his leg back until the knee was flexed. After a pause to prepare for the pain to come, he pushed back on her hand as hard as he could.

She was still assessing the gradually returning strength in his hip when they heard a very distinct, "Knock knock." Only one man could inject so much sarcasm into two words.

"Just a minute, Rodney," Jennifer called through the curtain. She eased John's leg back down and walked over to the opening. "All clear," she said, stepping back to allow Rodney to push a wheelchair into the room.

"We're not quite ready, Rodney. I still have a few things to go over with Colonel Sheppard before you go."

"Actually, I'm early," Rodney replied. He held up his gauze covered hand; it was grey and crusted with yellow serum and several strings hung from it. "Bandage change."

"Rodney!" Keller said with a gasp. "What have you -- you were supposed to be coming in for daily bandage changes AND keeping your hand clean and dry. You look like you've been –"

"--Rebuilding a blown up crystal matrix? Yes, well, unfortunately, if we want a silly little thing like life support, I need to effect repairs."

"We have a team of electrical engineers, McKay," John said from the bed. He put his glasses back on and peered with concern at the tattered bandages. "Geez, Rodney, your hand's a mess."

"Thus the reason for the bandage change," Rodney huffed. "Here." He bent over the chair, plucked a small pile of fabric off the seat and tossed it over.

John picked up the cloth and stared dumbly at it, then a grin spread on his face.

Jennifer smiled at the joy a simple pair of boxers could bring. "It was nice of you to bring those for him, Rodney."

"Oh, let's be clear. They're for me, not him. I have no desire to experience even a partial Monty. I'm sure it will disappoint the nurses –"

"Rodney!" Jennifer said sharply. "My staff is professional and—"

"--Yes, yes, I know. Just kidding. Finish up with him, would you? Life support, remember?"

"Rodney, we have redundant systems," John reminded him. "Even with the one set of crystals fried we—"

"--And we've certainly NEVER experienced a situation where all the failsafes in place fail at the same time," Rodney said, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

"Point taken," John said with an acknowledging nod.

"I think Doctor Fiedler is around here, someplace, Rodney. Tell him I want a culture from your hand- it looks like you might have an infection setting in. And make sure he takes your temperature. And maybe he can try a different wrap; if you're gonna be working with it I'm sure he could find a better way to bandage it. Oh, maybe he could—"

"--Doc!" John broke into her instructions. "Why don't you go take care of McKay's hand yourself. I'll get changed and then you can finish up when you're done with him."

Jennifer considered for a moment. "I think you'll need help, Colonel. I can send—"

"--I got this, doc. Where are the rest of the clothes, Rodney?"

"What am I, your man Godfrey? Jeeves to your Wooster? You're leaving one bed and getting into another; it doesn't require a complete ensemble. Just stick on a robe, for Pete's sake."

"McKay…"

"Alright, Rodney," Jennifer broke in smoothly. "Let's give the colonel some privacy and I'll fix up your hand." Planting a hand on his arm she unsubtly pushed him backwards, pulling the curtain shut behind her. "Use the call button if you have any problems, Colonel," she warned.

* * *

"Ow!"

"I told you to hold still, Rodney."

"It's difficult to remain motionless while being tortured. Even the Stoic Satedan would be giving up the gate codes after this."

"I've loaded you up with Novocain, Rodney," Jennifer sighed in exasperation. "There's no way you're feeling anything."

"Oh, yes, and the needle in the palm of my hand was a joy and a pleasure. OW!"

Jennifer pulled his hand back under the light, none too gently, and turned it under the yellow glow. "I think that's the last of it," she observed, then added a muttered, "Thank God."

Rodney picked up his hand and stared at the raw pink skin revealed once she'd finished the debridement.

"You know, if you hadn't let it get that bad we could have let nature take its course," Jennifer chided as she picked up a foil packet of Silvadene. She tore a corner off and grabbed his hand once more, pinning it to the table, wishing she could just stick him in restraints for the rest of the procedure.

"You really do need to take it easy with this hand, Rodney," she said, her voice softening. She knew what it was that was taking his attention and what it meant for John.

"Yes, well, next time I'll try to remember not to grab the 'about to explode and kill everyone in a hundred foot radius' crystal with my dominant hand. It will make life much easier. Or should I say the afterlife?"

"All right, Rodney, I'm just saying. A man of your talents must be ambidextrous."

"Hm," he answered noncommittally.

"Just try giving this hand a break, okay?" She squeezed out a dollop of the heavy white cream into his palm and began spreading it in slow, smooth circles.

She felt his hand stiffen as the cream was applied, tensing to pull it away at the first sign of pain, but was gratified to notice his posture easing. He actually smiled as her hands continued to work the cream over his palm.

"I had a hand massage once. Wicked hand cramp after a marathon session inputting code; you know my fingers actually clawed," he added, miming the same with his free hand. "She was Asian - Korean, maybe. Vietnamese? Hm. Anyway, it was one of the most pleasurable experiences. She told me there are pressure points that, if stimulated correctly, can bring a man to –"

"--Thanks for the reflexology lesson, Rodney," Jennifer interrupted. She quickly put his hand down on the gurney and stripped off her latex gloves. "Colonel Sheppard should be done by now. In fact, he's probably already wheeled himself halfway to his quarters."

"He's never been esteemed for his patience," Rodney mused distractedly.

When Jennifer looked up she noted a disappointed pout on his face. "Well, all set, Rodney," she said cheerily. "I'll send Doctor Fiedler in to wrap your hand and give you some antibiotics. Make sure you take the full course," she added pointedly. "And try and take them with more than coffee and a power bar, okay?" She cocked her head to the side and considered. "What have you had to eat this morning?"

"You mean, besides coffee and a power bar?" Rodney said innocently.

"Right, first dose IM then. Rodney, you really need to take better care of yourself," she said, placing her hands on his knees to get his attention. She lowered her voice and met his eyes. "Colonel Sheppard is out of commission for the foreseeable future. We can't afford to have you down, too."

Rodney actually blushed and looked away but he nodded. Then, so fast she could almost believe she never saw it, his normal haughty demeanor was back. "Just go," he directed, shooing her away with his good hand. "Send your lackey in to take care of me- you go finish up with your more important patient."

"Not more important, Rodney. Just a little… needier, right now. And if he's needier than you – "

"Ha ha. Go."

* * *

When she entered John's room her hand almost flew to her ear, ready to call out a Code Blue. John was flat on his back, his breathing rapid and his face paler than it had been since the days after his second surgery.

"Colonel?" she cried, rushing over to his bedside, already berating herself for removing his monitoring equipment. She picked up his wrist and felt for his pulse while she bent over to look for signs of cyanosis.

But his lips weren't blue. In fact they curled up at the corners in a smile. "Hey, doc," he said breathlessly.

"Colonel? Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he said, smile still pasted on his face despite the lines of pain around his eyes and his panting breaths.

His pulse was strong under her fingers, if a little rapid. "What's going on?"

"Took a little more outa me than I thought it would," John mustered out while sucking in air. "But look." He flipped up the front of his gown to show the boxers Rodney had brought. "The elastic hurts but I kept 'em kinda low," he added.

With a sigh of relief, Jennifer stepped back, pulling the stethoscope free from where it draped around her neck and putting the earpieces in place. She tucked the bell down the front of his gown and was further relieved to hear a strong if also rapid beat there. "Was it worth it?" she asked, allowing exasperation to cool her tone.

"Yup."

She couldn't help but get caught up in his newly found happiness. It had been a long haul and didn't promise to be over anytime soon, and this little spot of sunshine was a welcome break in his stormy demeanor.

But it made it all the harder, knowing that she'd probably be deflating his high spirits soon enough.

She helped him sit back up, bracing him with a hand as he calmed his breathing down. He gave her a grateful nod then pulled away, confident that his strength had returned sufficiently.

Jennifer sat next to him on the bed, put on the sternest doctor face she could muster and caught his gaze with hers. His green eyes were magnified and refracted by the odd, thick lenses but they were clear and sober.

She pulled a ziplock storage bag put of her coat pocket and opened it, pulling out one of a half dozen amber prescription bottles. "This is your antibiotic. You're on the last of the two week course." The next was his anti-seizure meds, then his pain meds, a step down of his steroids, migraine tablets, and the last were sleeping pills.

John gaped openly at the pharmacy that was coming with him. "Are all these really necessary, doc? Have I been taking all these?"

She nodded and gestured at the only equipment still connected to him, an IV port. "Through that. I was considering leaving it in…"

The military leader of Atlantis pulled a pout onto his face that made her choke back a laugh - it looked amusingly like the one Rodney had worn earlier.

"Okay, okay. But if we need to get emergency meds into you that means getting stuck. Are you sure?"

"Oh, yeah." He thrust his hand out and she shook her head, but pulled out a pair of gloves from her pocket and made short work of the offending tubing.

Then she went over and picked up the box that Cadence had packed for him. She placed it gently on his lap, then began pulling stuff out and showing it to him.

There was some exercise equipment that could be used in bed: a squeezy ball, a resistance band for his leg and a spirometer for him to keep his lungs healthy since his broken ribs and incision made deep breaths painful.

The plastic urinal met with the response she'd expected. She handed it to him with a pointed look. "You are not ambulatory on your own, Colonel. Between your hip and lingering balance problems, your weakness… I don't think I have to tell you how bad it would be if you fell."

When he began to roll his eyes she added, "I could always put the--"

His hand quickly placed the container back in the box with a friendly pat as he pasted a grim smile on his face.

"We're also still keeping an eye on your in and outs," she continued smoothly. "To make it easier in your room to keep track of, I figure you can use these." She pulled out an eight ounce bottle of water and a juice box. "I'm sending a few days supply with you now. Just don't throw out any of the containers - I'll have your nurse tally them up."

"Nurse?" John echoed.

"Yes, Colonel. Nurse." She put the box back down on the floor and sat back down. "Look," she said, turning his way, "if you were back on Earth, the only way we'd release you at this point is if you were going home to family. And you'd still have a visiting nurse. So, like it or not, a condition of your release is continued care and monitoring in your room."

John nodded but the giddy smile of earlier was completely gone and his face held its recent customary scowl. "Fine. Can I have Harrison?"

Jennifer kept her smile internal. "I thought she was a butcher? Isn't that what you called her after your last blood draw?"

He mumbled a reply that she didn't catch.

"Sorry, Colonel?"

"It was vampire. I called her a vampire."

She was tempted to tease him further but his scowl was deepening and she could see his knuckles whitening where they gripped the side of the bed.

"I'll ask Cadence. I'm pretty sure she'll do it. I'll offer her hazardous duty pay," she added with a little jostle to his arm. "Come on. Let's get you settled and ready for when Rodney gets here."

"I'm here, I'm here," came a huffy voice from outside the curtains. "Geez, for a man so eager to go you sure are taking your sweet time getting ready."

John glowered at Rodney but eased his feet down into the slippers Jennifer put down for him, then allowed help in sinking into the wheelchair.

Jennifer draped a folded blanket over his lap then put the box with all his goodies on top.

"It won't be the same around here without your smiling face, Colonel," Jennifer quipped. Her smirk was met with a dour look that melted into the mask of pain and frustration more normally seen on his face.

"No side trips, McKay," John said tiredly. "In fact, use the transporters. And don't go through the main halls."

"And I'm supposed to get to the transporters without using the main halls how? Oh, hang on." Rodney hit his chest and spoke to the air. "Beam us to Sheppard's room, Scotty. Huh. No sparklies. Shall I hail the Daedalus and ask for their assistance?"

"JUST…" John's anger trailed off and he slumped in his seat. "Just get me there as quick as you can, Rodney."

"Ah. Lucky me. I've been upgraded from butler to chauffeur. Don't you dare say-"

"--Home, Rodney."

* * *

"Wow. I've had car trips with my parents more enjoyable than this. And my old man used to demand perfect silence in the car. We actually made it all the way to Ottawa once without a word exchanged. Jeannie was the one who finally cracked. It was that or ruin the backseat of our Mercury Comet."

"Great story, McKay."

"Oh, you DO speak. I thought perhaps you'd gone selectively mute. You know, this is supposed to be a happy occasion. You've spent the last two days rattling your tin cup on the bars and now the warden springs you and all you can do is mope."

"I'm not moping, McKay. I'm tired, I hurt, I want my bed. A shower first to get the infirmary stink off me would be nice but I'd prefer not to drown with only five minutes clocked in my room."

"Fine. We're almost there. I'll just shut up and keep driving, Miss Daisy."

Rodney had been pleased with himself. He'd managed to utilize a corridor that didn't get much use at this time of day. It held rooms that had been revamped into places of worship for the various denominations that came with a global enterprise like the Atlantis mission was. Buddha was neighbors with the synagogue, and prayer rugs lined the room next to that holding a simple wooden cross on the wall.

But the corridor did connect to the residence section, and that meant eventual foot traffic. People in all manner of dress passed by, their outfits visibly demonstrating the myriad roles and work shifts of the city's inhabitants. Marines in BDUs, scientists in lab coats. Men and women on their own personal time in pajama bottoms and tees or sweats and headbands.

The civilians waved and smiled as Rodney blew past them and the soldiers that recognized the chair's occupant as their commander were left saluting the breeze left in their wake.

By the time they arrived in front of Sheppard's room Rodney was sucking wind. He panted while Sheppard waved his hand in front of the panel; the doors whooshed open with a hydraulic hiss.

Practically holding himself up on the handles, Rodney began pushing the chair into the room, stopping as he heard Sheppard say, "Wait."

"Wha? Wait? This chair's wheels haven't seen oil or WD40 since it was built and one of them sticks. I just pushed you at Mach seven through half of Atlantis, and now that we finally get here, you don't want to go in?"

"Just -- wait, Rodney," Sheppard said quietly. He sat in the chair, staring through the open doors into his quarters. The room was dim and quiet, the sun's rays blocked by heavy curtains put up hastily in response to his discharge. The shapes of his furniture were mere darker forms against the grey.

Rodney waited as long as he could, which was about thirty seconds. "Okay, moment over. Ready?"

Sheppard just nodded so Rodney pushed him all the way in, parking him next to the bed and relieving him of the box, placing it on the floor nearby.

It was made, of course. Sheppard was a military man and actually cared about things like polished boots and hospital corners. Rodney hadn't made his bed since he'd moved into the dorms at age 15.

When Sheppard didn't immediately get up, Rodney huffed and walked around the chair to tug the blankets down on the bed. "Butler, chauffeur… why not hotel maid? There. Turn down service. Sorry, I don't have a chocolate for your pillow."

Sheppard pushed up from the chair, making it only halfway and wobbling on one leg. Rodney cursed his lack of foresight and grabbed an elbow, steadying the man until he could push the chair free and lower him slowly onto the bed.

"God, this bed feels SO good," John said with an exhausted sigh. He took the heavy plastic glasses off and dropped them on the bedside table, rubbing roughly at the bridge of his nose. "Damn, those things suck."

"They work, though. Right?" Rodney prodded.

"Yeah. I suppose so," was the muttered response. "Do me one last thing, McKay?"

"Um, of course. What- you need something? I have your earpiece here," he added, placing the small receiver next to the glasses. "Do you need the uh, thing, from the box- you know - to uh …"

"No. Just undo me. Please." John turned his back to Rodney and presented the ties to his gown.

Reminding himself that Sheppard had boxers on, Rodney reached out tentatively and tugged free the strings at the neck and back.

Sheppard reached up and pulled the fabric off in one go and flung it onto the floor before pulling up his legs with a loud groan and covering himself with the blankets.

"Couldn't wait to see the back of that thing," Sheppard said, disdain dripping from every word.

"Funny, I thought that's why we hated them. Because they don't have a back."

"Good one, Rodney," Sheppard said, his voice already softer. His jaw cracked with a broad yawn and he snuggled down further into his pile of pillows.

To all appearances Sheppard was slipping into sleep right there and then. Rodney shuffled his feet, torn between staying and getting back to Project Save Sheppard's Ass.

"Thanks, Rodney." Sheppard's voice startled him; it was clear if a little mellowed with drowsiness.

"Oh. Well, you know, you're um, welcome. Rodney's Livery Service is available day or night, rates are reasonable."

"Not just talking about the ride, McKay."

"Oh. Well, just-- go to sleep. You know I have to report to Keller how you're doing. So. How are you doing?"

"Better, Rodney. Better." And then his breathing evened out into sleep.

* * *

Lorne walked near the water's edge, gazing at the dark blue sea and up at the sky where slivers of both moons had peeked out. The sun wasn't finished setting yet; there was still probably an hour of good daylight left. He stretched and twisted his back, loosening up the tension built up from too much time hunched over a desk. Tomorrow he needed to tackle the weekly supply requests, tweak duty rosters, and oh, yeah-- shuffle around the battalions again for a new rotation.

Another day of daises and sunshine.

A pilot's life was in the air, yet most of an aviator's time was buried in triplicate. There were briefings before a mission, debriefings after and of course, reports to document them. The red tape doubled in command positions. The added bureaucracy involved with Sheppard's job had been hell the past ten days. And he thought being his 2IC was bad.

He chuckled. No one could ever fill the colonel's boots, even temporarily. Of course, Lorne's were laced to full regulation.

He moved towards the tee, smirking at the swath of green artificial turf that Sheppard had brought over from Earth. He gripped the driver, experimenting with the weight of the club. If given a choice, normally he'd spend his free time painting or reading, but for some reason he'd felt strangely compelled to check out his CO's favorite hobby.

The wind whipped across the pier, trying to mess up his play time. After it calmed, he picked out one of the white balls from the bucket and set it on the tee.

"Sir?"

"Almost," Lorne sighed, turning around. "Yes, Dietrich?"

One of his Marine Captains hurried over, PDA in his hand. "Sorry, sir. I need your signature on this before I file it," Dietrich said, saluting.

"I understand," Lorne replied, scribbling with the electronic pen.

"I'm not allowed to begin work and the men are waiting and--"

"--I said it was fine. At ease." Lorne handed it back. "By the way, how did you find me?"

The captain was a towering man of muscle and he stood tall when he spoke. "This is where Colonel Sheppard goes to think."

_Ouch_. Lorne peered at the club, trying to imagine what was going through the Marine's head. All he wanted to do was see how swinging at a tiny ball could be so stress relieving. This was in no way, shape or form his attempt at acting like Sheppard, or for goodness sake, pretending to be him.

There was no accusation in the Captain's face, just stress line around the eyes, skin tanned a golden brown from too much time outside. "I'm sure this is just one of his many hiding places," Lorne replied.

"Yeah, the rest we can't find."

"Not if he doesn't want to be," Lorne laughed.

"He was released today, right, sir? Gonna be back in uniform soon?"

That was the million dollar question. Would glasses so thick they could be used for magnifying fingerprints fix Sheppard's vision? Would the head trauma just go away, like blue scales and sixty additional years of aging had?

"I think the Pegasus Galaxy has nothing that can keep the Colonel down for long," Lorne answered and meant every word of it.

Of course, the daily briefings with the man who was officially off-duty were less than pleasant of late. Hopefully, Dr. Keller would include some happy pills in whatever she sent him off with.

"Good to hear. The sooner that IOA guy leaves, the better the men will feel. With all due respect to Stargate Command, sir" the Captain added hastily.

No one liked the brass poking around, especially civvies with salaries that could pay for a month's worth of ammunition and fuel. Dietrich had an evil, dark glint in his eye. Yeah, the guys hated the investigation that was going on. The military protected their own and Atlantis had one of the closest cliques ever.

People who bled and died together had a habit of being close, considering they were pretty much cut off from anyone else in a place far, far away. Oh yeah, this stupid thing affected morale.

"I guess I should be goin', sir."

_Damn, caught lost in thought_. Lorne looked up and gave an exhausted smile. "Make sure the men play nice with Pratt. They can say whatever they want about him _after _he leaves."

"Yes, sir!" Dietrich saluted with a snap and quickly left.

Lorne tried to find where the ball had rolled off from the tee, scouring all that forest color for a blob of white. "There you are; tried to escape, huh? We'll see how much you like spending the rest of your lonely life at the bottom of the ocean."

Setting up again, Lorne checked for any breezes and eyed a long distance in the middle of the water. He stood over the tee, checked his arm motion and rounded his shoulders in an arc for a powerful drive. "Say goodbye to all your pals."

"Major Lorne, may I have a word with you?"

At the voice, Lorne's stroke went way out of whack and he completely missed his target. "Sonuvabitch!" He turned around, ready to chew out whoever screwed up his swing, only to come face to face with Richard Pratt.

_Fuck_.

"What can I do for you, sir?" Lorne asked, tone even and polite.

Pratt walked casually around the tiny platform, mesmerized by the serene skyline, slack jawed at the beauty. Apparently even globetrotting corporate types were not immune to Atlantis' allure. The bureaucrat sported a casual look by his standards, gray suit jacket, minus a tie, and a simple white dress shirt with the two top buttons undone.

"What a view," the man whistled. "I can see why so much is spent trying to defend her."

"And her people."

Any hint of humanity under the shark suit exterior vanished and Pratt turned his back to the one thing that had brought it out. "You play?" he pointed towards the club.

"A little," Lorne lied. "Don't have time."

"There's always time for life's simple pleasures, though I never envisioned boots on a course. Own a pair of elephant shoes myself." Pratt brushed the turf with the toe of his foot. "Of course this isn't Pebble Beach, is it?"

"Don't think the folks there have to worry about Wraith attacks anytime soon. We make do with what we've got," Lorne defended. He felt his grip tighten around the driver.

"Of course." Pratt grinned and gazed into the beat up golf bag. "Is this your preferred brand?"

The equipment belonged to Sheppard, the tote stashed nearby so the colonel could come straight here without stopping by his room. Lorne twirled the wedge in his hand possessively. "Not like we have a store around here."

"They're yours, right?" Pratt pulled out an iron. "A Thomas wedge is not bad. Tough on your pay scale I'd imagine, but I admire a man who invests in a good set. Says a lot about your love of the sport," he grinned. "Own a collection of Majesty Prestigios, nice steel irons. Have a custom design with precision-laser soldering on the club faces."

All Lorne wanted to do was send a bunch of balls into the ocean. Hit something. He should have just gone to the gym, used the punching bag instead. "This is just a driving range. Don't need anything else."

"Very true," the investigator agreed as he practiced a swing. "I know that you're off duty, Major. I thought you and I could play a game. You seem to enjoy them."

What he wanted to do was smack the club across that smug face, but Lorne stayed even keeled. "Sure."

"You know, my right-hand man is addicted to one of those Sims things. Always pretending to be someone he's not. Genghis Kahn or Julius Caesar. Forced to confront the world's largest crises and make those pesky decisions and see how things might play out differently. It's interesting the number of times they fall into the same traps, walking down similar paths of their counter-parts."

"Fascinating," Lorne muttered.

"It really is." Pratt had taken over the green, pulled his arms way back and sent the ball flying. "For instance. Some of your men are taken by a new alien force. Their strength and numbers are unknown. You have no tactical advantage and a completely defenseless base of operations with a large group of civilians. What would you do?"

The question knocked Lorne for a loop. "Excuse me?"

"You have a location but no intelligence on the planet that might be holding them. Do you risk launching an escape plan?" Pratt asked. "Oh, it's your swing."

"That's not enough information," Lorne defended, knowing exactly what scenario he was referring to. He set up his shot and sliced the air, smacking the ball with a lot of power.

"It isn't, is it?"

"I meant, it's too vague," Lorne reiterated, angry at stepping into the obvious mine field.

"That's the situation, though. But you're right. See, I don't think you would go in blindly, risking more people and possibly exposing your current location."

"If you're talking about rescuing Colonel Sumner and the others, I think it was the right call. It was the first step in forming an Alliance with the Athosians. Good thing, too. Without Teyla's help, many missions and lives would have been lost. In fact, I don't think we would have won when the Wraith laid siege to Atlantis a couple years ago."

Pratt made a hmmmm sound before launching the ball into a long arc over the waters. "If we had Maxfli balls, the urethane cover would correct the backspin." He chuckled at his observation. "Though at fifty bucks a dozen, wouldn't make sense to waste them like this. But I digress. Yes, the Athosians have proven a great asset. Too bad we've needed them. The Wraith became a true threat when their numbers increased significantly. After they all came out of hibernation at once."

Lorne had a split second to make a risky call. "You have a point, I guess. But hindsight is always twenty-twenty."

"Of course, Major. But this is just a game. Kind of a historical simulator as I said. Playing the role of commander." He rummaged through the irons, tsking. "Here, try this. Better balance for your swing."

"Thanks," Lorne replied, accepting the offered iron. "I was trying to improve my shot with a heavier one," he fumbled, trying to recall all his CO's golf talk.

"Improving one's performance is a trait of a leader. I've seen your jacket, Major. Very commendable. High praise from all your superiors."

_Including Colonel Sheppard, you jackass, _Lorne thought. "Thank you, sir."

"You chose a combat track in the Air Force. The quickest way to get promoted. You've been a major for about six years now. I know a promotion review board will be looking over your record in the next few months in terms of your pay grade. I have no doubt it'll increase."

Lorne missed the tee in his rush, the driver swooshing loudly.

"Looks like you were used to that weight, sorry." Pratt bent over, plucking another ball and setting up. "It must be tough, obeying all the rules your entire military career and see others flourish. I mean, Colonel Sheppard wasn't even in the zone for his promotion, or on the list for the review board for consideration of his rank that year." He rounded his shoulders back and made a perfect shot. "I wonder what it's like, serving under a person who skipped all the normal criteria to get those oak leaves."

"I guess it depends on what it was based on," Lorne countered.

"Merit, track history, a rush to judgment to name a few. I mean, missions have clearly defined rules of engagement and goals." Pratt continued to admire the blue waters that gobbled up the ball. "But you're well aware of that. Your track record for completing objectives sparkles."

"I do what I can."

"You don't disobey direct orders or go on rogue operations."

Lorne was beginning to hate the whole game of golf right now. At least in the gym, incidents could happen and would cover-up accidentally clobbering the IOA guy. Out here, between the city and the sea, there was nothing to hide behind.

Maybe he'd use that to his advantage.

"The Colonel does make some interesting choices I guess." Lorne shrugged. "What are you going to do? He's a hero to a lot of people. I can see that, you know?"

"Look between the lines. See the mistakes that have caused so many situations that resulted in the need for heroic actions."

Lorne stayed silent.

Pratt didn't mind, it seemed. "Tell me. Playing the whole 'what if' game again. Would you ever bring a Wraith through the interstellar bridge and into Stargate Command? You know, giving him the grand tour?"

"If it was vitally important to the mission, yes."

"And if it wasn't?"

They stood face to face, tiny white balls all but forgotten. Lorne needed more to go with before he played his hand. "Good points. But if you look at history, a lot of errors were made on the battlefield."

"And what about Henry Wallace? I forgot, which was he, a Replicator or a Wraith?"

"I don't know much about that," Lorne answered.

"True. You don't have access to what I do," the bureaucrat said, taking another swing.

"Nice shot," Lorne commented, wondering how much mouthwash it would take to get the foul taste out later.

"This was a good game, Major. I enjoyed our talk. And just for the record, I'll be sure to let the right people know about your help in this matter. Who knows when Atlantis is going to need a fresh commander."

"You know, I have a way to get stuff not in official reports. More _interesting_ facts," Lorne explained with a straight face.

"Yeah?"

"Might take some time, though and I know you're in a hurry."

Pratt's eyes lit up. "No, that's alright. I'm willing to wait, if it means something good."

"It could. Sticking to the whole 'what-if' theme."

"I'd make it worth your while, Major Lorne."

"Give me some time."

"Very well. I think I can take my time here; the due date for my final report is up to my discretion. It appears I've been circumvented by a random loophole at getting the information from the horse's mouth as it were. So, this is beneficial."

"Cool."

"And think about the next set of clubs on your wish list." Pratt patted him on the shoulder.

Lorne watched the snake slither away, disgusted at the thought that Sheppard's life could be bartered away like that. He took a look at the stupid clubs and kicked over the bag.

He had to believe that if it bought them all time to find the truth about the crash, it was worth it to play Pratt's game.


	13. Chapter 13 of 22

Jennifer looked up at the entrance of Lt Harrison. She scanned the nurse's face and demeanor, trying to get a sense of how things had gone but Cadence's calmly composed features gave no answers.

"So?" Jennifer asked cautiously. It was the first visit that Cadence had made to the Colonel's quarters and Jennifer was understandably worried as to how their little experiment was working out.

"Charming as ever," Cadence said sarcastically, but her grin was genuine.

Jennifer scowled. "I really thought moving him to his quarters might have done the trick. I'm sorry."

"Oh, please, Dr Keller. My daddy is the biggest bear. When you're a five foot eight drill sergeant you need to be," she added with a laugh. "The Colonel is just like my daddy- all growl on the outside, teddy on the inside."

Jennifer decided that was _not_ going in her report, but did allow a knowing smile. "Well, alright. But I still say we should put you in for hazard pay. How's he doing?"

Cadence held out her data pad for the doctor, her expression sobering. "Surgical site is healing well. BP, temp, all normal. He reported one absence seizure. He checked the time on the bedside clock and figures he was only out for a minute at the most and he doesn't recall any tonic symptoms."

Jennifer nodded and flicked her eyes down at the written entry, then waited for the rest of the nurse's report.

"Mr. Dex had him up this morning; they made it to the end of the hall and back."

Jennifer raised her eyebrows, impressed at the news but a little concerned. "That's farther than I would have expected."

"They had plans to try for the balcony this afternoon," Cadence said with a small chuckle. "Not sure who's pushing harder…" She chewed briefly on her lip and Jennifer recognized the hesitation for what it was.

"Something else, Cadence?"

"He wouldn't own up to it, but I don't think he slept well last night. Now that his sleeping meds have become basically voluntary, I'm not sure he's taking them."

Jennifer nodded, almost expecting to hear it. "Thanks, Cadence." She checked her watch and then, with a few taps on her keyboard pulled up her day calendar. After a quick perusal she closed it down with a grim smile. "Looks like Audrey has this shift. I think I'll tag in for your evening visit. The balcony, huh?"

The nurse grinned broadly. "You want an order in for Vicodin?"

"That far on that hip?" She shook her head in disbelief. "He's gonna need it. Thanks, Cadence. Anything else I should know before you clock out?"

"Yeah. He mentioned something he'd left behind when he was discharged…"

* * *

The doorbell chirped with the sound that reminded Jennifer of the crickets back home on summer nights. She heard, "Come on in," and waved her hand in front of the door, heaving her medical bag over her other shoulder.

John's room was bright and airy; the curtains had been pushed back to let in the late afternoon sunshine and the room was toasty from its powerful rays. The colonel was sitting up in bed, on top of the covers, clad in boxers and a dark grey Air Force tee and reading what looked like a comic book. He looked up and gave her a smile that she found less than convincing but she answered with her own, pulling up a chair and dropping her bag as he set the comic aside and took off his glasses to rub at his eyes.

"How are you doing?"

He kept the smile on his face and nodded. "Good. Real good. Made it out to the balcony today."

"So I heard. I'm impressed. Maybe a little concerned… but impressed."

"Ah, no concern, doc. Had Ronon with me and the bat- I mean, Nurse Audrey."

Jennifer chuckled knowingly. Everyone knew that Audrey's nom de infirmary was 'the battleaxe'; everyone that is except for Audrey herself. The woman was competent to a fault but her bedside manner left a whole lot to be desired.

"Audrey's the only nurse I've got that can rein Ronon in. The big guy woulda had you sparring in the gym if he had his say."

John quirked a small smile. "She can be intimidating…"

"Good."

"Good?" John raised surprised eyebrows at that.

"Yes. Good. You need to be intimidated sometimes. You've got the whole, military leader, Colonel thing, but sometimes it's good to know someone can set you straight when it's needed. Take me for example. Now I specifically remember telling you about every one of your meds, yet you, without the MD after your name, decide you don't need them, is that right, Colonel?" She cocked an annoyed brow at him even as she battled a smirk.

"Harrison's a tattletale," he grumbled in response. "How did she know?"

"She didn't. But- she suspected. And now I know. What's the problem?"

"Nothing. Just thought that with the fricking pharmacy floating through my system, maybe I wouldn't need 'em. I sleep like 16 hours a day as it is. Usually."

"And oddly enough, you stop taking the sedatives and poof - there goes your sleep. Huh."

"Yeah, yeah," he sighed. "I just don't see why I need 'em. Painkillers oughta do it, I thought."

Jennifer leaned way back in her chair, reached over and picked up an amber bottle from his bedside table, read the label and then sat back straight. "Quick and dirty rundown of Pharmacology 101. Painkillers kill pain. That's it, for the most part. Especially the non-opiate ones. They dull the pain so that the sleeping pills," and here she lightly rattled the bottle in her hand, "can do _their_ work."

When she saw the lingering doubt in his eyes she finally let the smirk win. "When you had the Kierson fever, you slept for 23 hours straight, woke up long enough to mumble at people for an hour and eat a bowl of jello before falling back asleep for another six hours. As I recall, that lasted about three hours before you-"

"-Got the picture, doc. I slept away like three days. And," he raised a triumphant finger, "without sleeping pills!"

"During those three days of sleeping," she continued as if not hearing him, "you spent approximately 85 percent of the time curled up on your right side and stomach, 10 percent on your left side and the other five on your back, and only when you were falling asleep or waking up. You're not a back sleeper," she emphasized with a shake of her head. "And now, between the need for your head to be raised, your ribs, your hip, your incision… not much side sleeping going on, is there?"

His face soured. "No. I do miss being able to curl up, I gotta admit…"

She nodded. "So your body needs the help to defeat your unnatural sleep position. Plus," she added, her voice softening, "I would imagine you have some anxiety, and the dark of night when you're wide awake … well, I know those are the nights I say, physician heal thyself. Or rather, have _my_ doctor write me something."

"Huh. Never thought of the doc havin' a doc. Please don't tell me you use Biro - the woman's probably competent enough but she's a pathologist." He mocked a shiver at the thought.

Jennifer chuckled. "Nope. Back home I have my own GP, but um, you know," she continued casually, "we do have a new doc on base. They um… they brought in a new psychiatrist. His specialty is clinical psychology but he has his MD. Real nice guy. Jim Jennings is his name. If you ever wanted to talk to him, I mean."

John's features darkened and he averted his gaze to a point somewhere over her shoulder. "Yeah, I'll take the pills, doc. Thanks. You need any blood or anything?" He thrust his arm forward; the pale underflesh was riddled with bruises, some new and indigo, others yellowing as they faded with age.

She'd made a terrible mistake in bringing up Kate's replacement. While Jennifer knew that John was about as far from open and honest in talking about his feelings as they were from Earth, she also knew that Kate had been there for him, for all of them at one time or another. And she'd been more than a shrink- she'd been a friend.

"No. No, I think you've been stabbed enough, Colonel." She tried for a joke to bring some levity back to the room. Despite the cheery sunshine, there'd been a pall cast over the room; and it had been her remark that added to it.

She cast her eyes down at the comic on the bed. "Hey, _Hellblazer_." She picked it up and studied the cover with an appraising smile.

John darted a glance her way but his look was clearly dismissive. "Yeah. I've read it about a hundred times but there's not exactly a bookstore out here."

"You read _this one a _hundred times?" she snorted. "It's not a very good one."

That got a reaction. He narrowed his gaze at her. "No, it's not. I didn't care much for the Denise Mina ones but she's not bad for a--"

"-A chick? A girl?" Jennifer baited.

"Noooo, I was gonna say, not bad for a non-comics writer. She's a mystery novelist. So you, start reading cuz of the Keanu Reeves movie?" he asked sarcastically.

She feigned great indignation, her hand rising to her heart like she'd been mortally wounded. "Please. That piece of crap? Hello, how did the blonde Irishman get turned into the brunette _dude? _And they made Constantine so…. _nice._ The man is a cold, calculating bastard who'd probably sell his mother's soul if the price was right."

A small smile snuck up while John wasn't looking and Jennifer felt the veil of sadness begin to lift. They spent the next fifteen minutes chatting about what they liked, loved and hated about each of the authors who'd had temporary custody over John Constantine and his immoral adventures.

While he was clearly happier, Jennifer couldn't help but notice that despite his enthusiasm, his motions were controlled, tamped down. Lines furrowed the skin at the corners of his eyes and he held his head abnormally still.

The room had if anything, grown brighter as the last of the day's rays struck the windows; the sun was a blazing molten globe and Jennifer thought that if she looked closely enough she could see the ocean boiling and hissing with steam as the setting orb met the horizon.

"So we concur, Garth Ennis was the best author, but we'll hafta agree to disagree on best artist."

"Greg Lauren," John muttered out the side of his mouth.

"He is good, Colonel," she laughed. "Tell you what, I promise to seriously reassess his work when I get home, 'kay?"

"Fair enough."

"Oh! Hey, you don't have to read that for the hundred and first time. I brought you…" and she reached into her medical bag and pulled out the Harry Potter novel, handing it over to him with a flourish.

"Thanks," he said, but didn't open the book, just pushed aside pill bottles and his spirometer to put it on his bedside table.

"No problem. Cadence told me you'd left it. Where did you get it in the first place, by the way?"

"There's a geek in xenozoology. Dr Putnam, I think. He's uh… he's low vision. Guess he's got glasses kinda like mine and a magnifier for his laptop screen. He gets around pretty good, I hear. His kid had sent this to him and he passed on the favor."

"I think if you stick with it, you'll enjoy it. It's gotta be better than the comic. I'm actually kinda surprised you bought it. Her series was pretty well panned by everybody."

"I didn't," was his quiet reply. "Carson was a big fan of her mysteries. He called it _Tartan Noir. _She's like the Dashiell Hammett of Glasgow or something. Anyway," he continued with a sigh, "Carson knew I liked comics…"

Jennifer nodded in unspoken understanding. And now they were back full circle, her lost for words and John back in a melancholy funk.

Or maybe there was more to it. She cast an appraising eye over him, mentally kicking herself as the whole picture finally clicked into place for her.

She rose from her chair, hefting her medical bag onto her shoulder. "Well, I'll let you rest. You need anything before I go?"

John chewed on his lip, then shrugged lightly and said, "Nah." But he didn't shake his head.

"Okay," she said brightly, making it all the way to his door before whirling around, dropping her bag to the floor to plant her hands on her hips. "You must think me a pretty poor excuse for a doctor, John."

He tried for perplexed but he couldn't meet her eyes. "What?"

"Is there a reason not to tell me about the migraine?"

John slumped on the bed, dropping his head back into his pillows. "It's not that bad."

"Riiiight. You're comfortable with the room practically _ablaze _with sunlight, too huh?"

He shifted uncomfortably and dug his thumb and fingers into his eyes. "No. Audrey opened them earlier. Told me my room was like a crypt and I needed to let in the Vitamin D or something. Never understood how there's vitamins in sunlight anyway," he grumbled.

"The vitamins are in your skin," Jennifer replied. "The light activates its production. And you left the curtains open because…"

"Because I overdid it with Ronon and I hurt too bad to get up and shut the damn curtains! Is that what you wanted to hear?"

"Yes," she answered quietly. "Honesty, Colonel, was the one thing I asked for when I let you go." She walked over and grabbed the curtains, pulling the heavy drapes across the window. The effect was like instant night, the room plunged into near complete darkness.

She stood for a moment, letting her eyes adjust and her nerves quiet. She had a fine line to walk. Letting her anger show was not the way to handle things, especially as much of her anger was directed inward. Small things that she was able to handle in her infirmary were out of her control here. John's health was still far from optimum and that niggling fear that she'd had since agreeing to his release was chewing a hole in her gut.

Taking a calming breath, she walked over and picked up her discarded bag, silently pulling out what she hoped would help alleviate the man's pain.

The first thing she did was take out a cold pack, punching it with maybe a little too much force to activate it. It came wrapped in a fabric sleeve, ready for use and she handed it over.

John took it with a nod so fast she could have imagined it but he slipped it into the waistband of his boxers against his hip; after an initial flinch he relaxed as the cold soaked into the abused and swollen joint.

"Here," she prompted, nudging him down a little into his pillows. "Don't bother getting under the covers, the less movement the better," she instructed quietly. She grabbed up a clean sheet off a laundry basket of folded linens and snapped it out in a burst of bleach and fabric softener, then draped it over his legs. "It's hotter than Hades in here already so this should be good."

Then she glanced over at his collection of pill bottles. "Have you taken anything yet?"

"Yeah. I took two of the blue ones about an hour ago but they didn't do much."

She nodded. "Well, I think I have something that should do the trick. It should take care of the pain in your hip as well." She paused, then poked his shoulder gently. "Anything else I should know about while we're dealing with things honestly?"

"I told Harrison about the seizure," John said contritely. "I… I was afraid that with that and the migraine you'd make me go back."

Jennifer gently rubbed the same shoulder she'd poked, then gave him a light tap. "I told you you'd have migraines and the occasional seizure would not be unexpected. But you have to be honest with me, Colonel. And with Cadence, _and_ with the bat -- I mean, Audrey."

He smiled briefly at her joke. "Told ya, she scares me."

"Audrey's got nothing on me when I get my dander up," Jennifer said with a pointed look, rising on her tiptoes to make her petite, girlish form look more threatening.

"I'll bet, doc," John said dryly. "So I 'fessed up. Please get whatever it is you have in your magic bag and make this go away." He scowled and dug once more where his forehead met the bridge of his nose.

"Coming right up, Colonel." While he held up his sleeve she pulled out a prepared, rubber topped syringe and an alcohol pad, holding the one in her teeth as she opened the foil and swabbed off a spot on his deltoid. The injection quickly administered, she rubbed at the site with the alcohol before he dropped his tee shirt sleeve back into place.

"It's my own mix, patent pending," she said with a smile. "It's got a muscle relaxant and a sedative in there; the rest is proprietary, kinda like the formula for Coke."

"Thanks," John said on a sighed exhale. "Won't tell a soul…"

Jennifer waited until his breathing evened out and she was sure he was sleeping before quietly packing up her stuff and heading for the door.

She paused before leaving, gazing back on his sleeping form. The pain lines had eased around his eyes but the nagging worry she carried hadn't eased a bit.

* * *

Rodney sat in the dormant cockpit, staring at the head's up display, tapping the armrest rhythmically with his left fingers. He knew sitting in the dark was bad for his eyes, but it was rare to be in the _captain's chair._ He usually only flew on long trips to practice his piloting, or if Sheppard had lagged behind and they needed to take off immediately. Colonel Heroic always found a way to be up front in any given situation and take over unless he was injured to the point of unconsciousness.

Technically, the pilot's seat was no different than the one next to it. Both chairs were made of leather and viewed identical display readings. The flight controls were the only difference and even the yoke was mainly for appearances. The jumper responded primarily to a pilot's mental commands; the naturally gifted ones could really make the jumper dance. He swore Sheppard's eyes swirled in multicolors anytime he flew by the seat of his pants. Now prismatic lenses in large clunky glasses did that artificially.

Rodney flexed his bandaged hand, thinking of the puffy pink flesh, knowing new layers would eventually grow over. What if they had been third degree burns? He imagined leathered skin that wasn't elastic or able to stretch. And damaged nerve endings that couldn't follow his commands and react quickly to fix a computer meltdown or open a lock in time.

"Are you just going to sit there all day?"

"Yes, I thought if I sat long enough, that the jumper would start talking to me," Rodney spun around in the chair to lash out at Zelenka. "Or, if you bothered to look, you would see my laptop connected to the main frame."

Zelenka lowered a knapsack to the floor, pulled out a portable light and hung it from the ceiling. "Yes, I can see that. We've already gone over the entire… what do you call it... black box," he said, retrieving a portable device.

"What is that? A voltmeter?" Rodney asked, getting out of the seat and walking over. He craned his neck to peer over Zelenka's shoulder. "You buy that at a garage sale?"

The smaller man growled under his breath, muttering in his native tongue. "No, it is highly sensitive machine to track down electrical shorts. It measures current and locates ground faults."

It looked like a projector without a lens. Rodney snorted. "In other words, a voltmeter. And what are you going to do? Check every busboard and circuit on the jumper?"

Zelenka shook his head and made his way over to the flight controls. He pulled a screwdriver out of his pack and began removing the first panel.

The second most brilliant mind in Atlantis wanted to dig for a needle in a haystack. Rodney knew his IQ was higher by double digits but was he the only one who used his brain? Were they willing to throw away their chance at finding the real answer with such archaic measures?

"Excuse me," Rodney said, brushing by the other scientist rudely. The space was cramped up front and he needed to get to his analysis. "By the way, I'm hooked into the jumper's sensors."

Zelenka guided the nose of an electronic needle over the first miniature circuit board, a silver wafer embedded with hundreds of fibers and relays. "Those were analyzed. Twice."

Rodney jabbed at the arrow key viciously, scrolling down screen after screen of measurements. "Yeah, from the flight data. I'm searching the initial readings at the original junction. There could be physical anomalies that don't translate into the flight recorder."

"But what are you looking for?"

"I don't know. That's why I'm looking. Anything out of the ordinary that would cause something like, I don't know... a crash. There has to be a reason for it. The outside sensors were already examined. I'm seeing if something on the inside show any signs of defect."

Rodney tapped the key with his left finger, growing more agitated at the lack of information. He didn't need Zelenka to tell him how hopeless it was of finding something weird in millions upon millions of lines of computer code. "And tell me again how you were going to locate a faulty electrical issue with something I could dig out of a junkyard?" he asked, pounding the keyboard.

"I'm using something that gives me an audio signal. Even you could use it," Zelenka fired back.

"And who asked you to help again?"

Rodney watched his co-worker close his eyes, lips sputtering Czech curses at him undoubtedly.

"I am here because Colonel Carter asked me if I could give you a hand. I know finding a fault with the jumper is the best way to clear Colonel Sheppard," Zelenka snapped.

The fire in Zelenka's voice caught Rodney off guard. There was real passion and anger in his tone. The man had worked furiously in his lab on the 'black box' despite his hectic daily schedule and there was an extra layer of tension to his body. His friend was serious about this, checking each and every microcircuit.

"Didn't know you were so gung-ho to play detective," he said casually.

"And once again you miss the point," Zelenka sighed. He removed his glasses, rubbing his eyes. "I grew up in a place where good men's reputations were smeared and tarnished. Placed in jail for speaking out. Forced to hide and live like criminals for doing the right thing. Now berate me all you want. This might not be the same, but the result is."

Rodney stopped abusing his computer, seriously touched by the words. "I guess you're right. I don't know why this is happening. Politics and scapegoats. Don't remember anything about that in the papers I signed when I joined this mission. Of course, space vampires and deadly AIs weren't either, but neither was making..." He cleared his throat. "This is wrong. And if it's in my capability to fix this... then I will."

"Mechanical things. Computers. That is what we are good at." Zelenka shrugged. "People? Not so much."

The most complex machine in the world was beyond their skilled hands. No amount of brain power or math could repair the damage done to the human body. In the end, twenty years of advanced education, theories and applied science couldn't heal a damn thing.

"Hey. You helped that Russian make Sheppard's glasses. I mean they look like something out of sixth grade shop class, but they seem to work. For the most part," Rodney smiled. It was fake and filled with false hope, but he meant it.

Zelenka had done something useful to help Sheppard and it only made him feel more guilty. He was Sheppard's friend. The guy who saved him or pulled his ass out of the fire. And he'd done neither. The past few days playing butler, chauffeur and nursemaid had hardly made him feel better.

"Oh no, I did nothing special. Was happy I found suitable material to make the frames," Zelenka brushed the compliment away.

"I'm praising you. Take it for the rare event that it is. You helped give him some of his sight back for Pete's sake." Rodney slapped the laptop with his uninjured hand. "All I've done is be a convenient target for his mood swings."

"I think he has to be someone else all the time, this big leader. Big actor. Everyone knows who Colonel Sheppard is. To you he can be Sheppard, yes? Not Colonel. This is a most difficult time and by being his friend you bear his pain." Zelenka frowned. "I give him iPod and he smiles. You help him stand and he yells."

"I prefer other types of fringe benefits, thank you. Besides, I think Ronon got stuck with the role of crutch for when he walks. I'm just his errand boy." Rodney stared at the screen frustrated. This was far worse than looking for circuits. "How did you end up helping the bear any ways?"

"Bear?" Zelenka asked puzzled, taking apart the next section.

"The Russian. Petrovsky"

"Dr. _Pirogov_ is a very intelligent man. He is brilliant scientist. His research into neural pathways is unprecedented. And the instrument he is using to study Colonel Sheppard's eye motion and the nerve function in his occipital lobe is amazing."

Zelenka practically glowed when he spoke about the neurologist, like he had some teenage crush. Rodney rolled his eyes in disgust. "I'm taking back my compliment. All you did was give the guy some old safety glasses frames. Surprised they're not being held together by tape and chewing gum."

"The longer he wears the glasses, the better the odds that the prisms will correct his vision."

Rodney really wanted to believe it. That there was hard science involved in correcting the damage. The brain was after all, a biological operating system.

Glasses may be helping his vision, but they were still left protecting the colonel from overzealous bureaucrats. He swore the guy had it in for Sheppard but he forced that to the back of his head to investigate later.

After he figured out how the damn jumper crashed.

"You having any luck with the metal detector?" he snorted, flexing his bad hand.

"It is the T-9100 and no, so far the display is reading just above zero. I think it must be defective because it is not picking up juice in any of this," Zelenka said, rubbing at his temples.

"I don't have the portable power supply hooked up. I wanted the jumper to be exactly how we found it. It's why I was sitting here in the dark," Rodney explained sarcastically. "And the T-9100? Was it a reject from the Terminator films?"

"No, that wouldn't explain the low levels or the readings I am getting. It is like every circuit is fried or drained down to nothing."

Rodney watched with fascination as Zelenka attached the metal needle to each tiny node and shook his head in aggravation, the man's normally wispy hair beginning to mat to his head with sweat. He adjusted a few of the buttons on top of the gizmo and pointed the lead at another relay. "Nothing! This is making no sense!"

His co-worker rarely displayed such annoyance unless it involved verbal fisticuffs with him so Rodney stayed out of the way. Zelenka stood on his tip-toes to remove a panel in the roof of the craft, clipping another lead to one of the main crystals. "_Hovno_! This is not right."

Rodney moved out of the way as the little man stormed over, still muttering. "Let me see your computer."

"What? No. I'm working on important tests and--"

Zelenka picked up the laptop despite Rodney's objections and flipped it upside down.

"Stop dismantling my stuff! This is insane. Have you finally lost it?"

Zelenka waved his hand to hush him, quickly removing the cover to the battery and touching it with the red-nosed needle. One of the round buttons lit up as the gadget beeped. "Aha!"

Rodney was still ticked off at being bum rushed and having his equipment misappropriated. "You just proved that my computer has power, so what? And I thought the idea was to locate shorts! Not to mention I'll have to re-boot everything and start over!"

He rubbed at his own sweaty hair; the jumper was stifling without air-conditioning. He was miserable, hot, tired and didn't want to deal with this insufferable human being.

"We are trying to help Sheppard! That means the little gerbil running the wheel powering that peanut brain of yours needs to be whacked upside the head. Now give me back my laptop and get out of here. And take your piece of crap with you!" Rodney took a deep breath of air, mentally calculating how little was inside the tiny ship.

He was feeling faint from lack of oxygen and it was all Zelenka's fault. Rodney stumbled back into his seat, wondering where the portable oxygen tank was kept. All the while the Czech devil tore apart one of the consoles and stuck his Cracker Jack prize into it.

"Oh, this is very interesting," Zelenka said excitedly and looked up. "Is everything still the same in here? Nothing's been removed?"

"What are you going on about?" Rodney asked, slouching in his seat and flexing his aching hand.

The tiny man raced around the jumper, digging through the contents on the floor and rummaging through the supplies. "Oof, these containers are heavy. Feel like they are filled with lead."

Rodney used the chair to stand and stared at the large black supply box. "We think that's what hit Sheppard in the back of the head." He pointed to the bulkhead behind them. "Probably jarred loose from the safety straps. Stupid really, stupid dumb injury."

His words sobered Zelenka's excitement as the Czech retrieved another laptop. "This is the colonel's, right?"

"Yeah, he keeps a spare one for long trips. Stays in here. Think he uses it to play games," Rodney said, his curiosity piqued. "Why?"

Zelenka took it apart in silence, hands working feverishly. The back of it popped off and he tested the battery. "Nothing. No power."

Rodney felt that familiar tingle. The buzz and adrenaline at finding a puzzle and knowing the answer was at the tips of his fingers. "Yeah, go on."

"I need something else. Anything left in the jumper that has its own power supply," Zelenka said with a gleam in his eyes.

Rodney sifted through the 'dash board' and dug into the tiny niches around the front compartment. "Here. Handheld Sudoku game."

"Yes, that uses alkaline battery," Zelenka said, prying open the device and attaching the electronic needle. "Nothing!'

Rodney snapped his fingers. "_Nothing_ in here has power. Not even portable electronic devices."

"And every panel shows no sign of charge. It is like the jumper suffered a massive loss of power which means..."

"--All its systems were affected at the same time. It would have dropped like a brick!" Rodney felt his heart race.

They found it! Something did affect the jumper, something powerful enough to zap the power and bring it down.

Which meant…

"This means we are looking for a natural phenomenon on that planet or something… not natural," Zelenka said, pushing up his glasses.

"We need to talk to Sam. If it wasn't natural then we're looking at something deliberate and that means the people of Dargara aren't as innocent as they appear," Rodney added, the implication of the discovery hitting him for the first time.


	14. Chapter 14 of 22

Teyla exited the infirmary, feeling satisfied after her examination. Jennifer was a kind, gentle soul and she knew her son would be in good hands when it came time to deliver. The amount of prenatal care available to her was unprecedented compared to what Athos had offered. She was overjoyed at having access to such technology and it gave her hope for a future where her people would be allowed to develop similar advancements. On her next visit she would have a new ultrasound picture of her son and the thought made her heart beat faster. She adjusted her sling; a dull pain flared near the surgery site, but quickly calmed to a dull ache.

It was time for breakfast but she wasn't feeling very hungry and decided not to enter the mess hall. The smell of sausage and eggs wrinkled her nose and stirred her belly. She would skip this meal and settle for fixing a little bran in her quarters.

"Teyla!" Ronon jogged over, carrying a plastic bag. "Hey."

"Good morning, what are you up to?" she asked, smiling at him.

"Oh, grabbed Sheppard some food. Gonna hang out with him today," he said, walking by her side.

"Please let him know I shall join him for dinner later."

Of all people, John seemed more at ease around Ronon these days. It was clear that anytime the colonel saw her, he bore the weight of guilt and despair around his shoulders. It saddened her, how heavily those self-imposed shackles dragged him down, through so much uncertainty. She tried fruitlessly to alleviate him of any doubt over the accident, but her presence served as a painful reminder.

Rodney helped with whatever he could and his efforts were obviously appreciated, but he broadcasted his worry and concern like a gigantic radio. The more Rodney tried to help, the grumpier it made John. There were only rare moments where the colonel let all the walls down and accepted the gestures of kindness for what they were.

Then there was Ronon. Of the three of them, John was most comfortable around the Satedan. The two of them communicated in their own way, using few words and even less emotion. Ronon knew how to deal with John and keep him grounded and the colonel actually opened up to him a little. Hidden under that rough exterior lay a real gentleness.

"I'll tell him."

"What will you two do today?" Teyla asked, stopping at the intersection that led to her room.

Ronon shrugged. "Don't know. He still sleeps a lot."

The rest was unspoken. There was always someone around John's room or men who 'happened to be patrolling' his hallway. Richard Pratt wasn't allowed in the colonel's quarters, but they weren't leaving it to chance that he wouldn't still try.

Teyla touched his shoulder. "I'm sure you'll find lots to do." She turned, calling over her shoulder. "Have him read his new book to you; I'm sure he'd love it."

She chuckled when he heard his disparaging remarks about 'bedtime stories' and how guys didn't do that.

All her good humor changed to odd curiosity when she found Rodney hovering outside her room.

"Oh, good, you're here," he said to her, tapping his earpiece. "Teyla's back. We can proceed now."

"What is this about?"

"We're having a secret meeting in your quarters, so if you, um... don't mind," he replied, waiting on her to open the door.

There went her peaceful oatmeal breakfast.

* * *

One of the gifts John and Ronon had brought back from Earth on their last visit was a rocking chair. Teyla loved the curved back supports and the large, cushioned seat. The simplicity of rocking back and forth had a nice, calming effect and she would spend evenings talking to her unborn child while relaxing in it, staring out at the sky. She exhaled slowly, rubbing her stomach with her good hand and observing the assembled group of people using her quarters as a hideout.

Rodney paced. Zelenka did his best to ignore his boss and both men jumped when the door chimed and allowed Colonel Carter inside.

"Alright, I'm here," Sam said, before turning to her. "I hope Rodney asked if it was okay first, before assembling us like this?"

Instead of telling the truth, Teyla smiled. "Yes, he did."

Rodney's panicked expression quickly faded into gratitude before changing into a scowl of agitation. "I got everyone here because I...um... I mean, we..," he grunted, looking at Zelenka, "discovered why the jumper crashed."

"Not exactly why, but more the how. We still don't know why exactly," Zelenka added, earning an evil glare from his co-worker.

"Hold up. You guys found something?" Sam asked anxiously, halting any distracting arguing.

"The jumper experienced a massive power failure that drained all systems on the jumper, including everything else on board," Rodney announced. He didn't allow another word in edgewise before vaulting to the next thing. "Before you ask how we could have missed such a thing, I'll tell you. The ship was a disaster when it was brought back. Our engineers looked for mechanical and structural damage which was kind of tough when it was flattened like a pancake in a few spots, but no matter. They couldn't find a fault with it structurally."

"Leaving us with internal issues," Zelenka broke in. "But all the data we downloaded didn't show a power flux or disruption. There was nothing to indicate an electrical occurrence had taken place."

"Why is that?" Teyla inquired.

"Because there was no power fluctuation to record," Rodney spun around to face her.

Teyla looked to Colonel Carter and Zelenka for further explanation. She could follow most of Rodney's ramblings but what he was saying didn't make much sense to her, especially when it was so important.

Sam didn't seem to be in a mood for mysteries either. "Bottom line it, please."

Zelenka took center stage, holding up both his hands as if they helped him with the words. Teyla wondered if all science people gestured while they spoke. "The power to the jumper was halted and drained instantaneously and simultaneously. Whatever disrupted it did so without recording any spikes or lulls. None of the instruments would have detected an anomaly because they ceased working."

"In order words, a complete blackout occurred, blinding us to what happened," Sam said, her face dawning with the implications. "Oh, my god. That means in mid-flight--

"-- the jumper dropped like a dead weight. It was a miracle there were any survivors at all. It would have been like a lead box falling out of the sky and everyone inside subjected to the will of gravity," Rodney summed up solemnly.

Teyla wrapped her arms around her stomach protectively, the horror of what could have happened making her shiver. "There was nothing John could have done."

Perhaps sensing her distress, Sam stood next to Teyla, resting a hand on her shoulder. "No, there wasn't." She gazed at the two scientists. "That means something brought it down."

"Yes, we thought of that," Rodney said smugly.

Teyla picked up on the innuendo, mind racing at possible theories and not liking the train of thought. The Dargarans were a peaceful people and she had known Tellen and his wife for a long time.

"What do you suspect?" she asked the others, noticing how silence had settled morosely over the room.

"We have two avenues," Sam said.

"Yes. It was a natural phenomenon which is one of the first things we investigated without any success," Zelenka answered. "We didn't know what we were looking for before, so we can narrow things down."

"Oh, please, Radek. There's no possibility that the storms on Dargara can suck up power into the atmosphere without giving off any readings." Rodney looked around. "Come on, we can't really suspect such a rare occurrence?"

"I don't know. We can't discount it. There could even be elements in the minerals that might have affected the jumper," Zelenka defended.

"If the Barrens were capable of zapping all electrical current from things how would it go unnoticed? Plus, we've flown back and forth tons of times without the jumpers being dragged out of the sky by mysterious, magical forces," Rodney said acidly.

"The Dargarans are good people, but history has taught us that not all is what it seems," Teyla said, not wanting to waste time with bickering. "What is your theory?"

Rodney seemed taken aback momentarily. "Oh, well, we don't have one."

Sam looked like she wanted to whack her head scientist on the head. "Then what _do_ you have?"

"Um. Questions." Rodney cleared his throat and looked over at Teyla. "I don't have a pipe or a funny hat but I can play detective. Solved all those Encyclopedia Brown books when I was like five. So, anyways. If the jumper was brought down on purpose, the first thing we need to think about is the night of the crime... or you know... the night of the dinner."

Teyla closed her eyes, focusing on sounds and smells to lure her back to that evening as she rocked in her chair. "It was a pleasant night. I don't recall anything unusual. We toured Tellen's lands and the neighboring areas. We greeted many before dinner."

"Did you notice anything suspicious?" Sam asked.

Teyla shook her head. "No, it was a celebration. There was nothing out of the ordinary except dealing with Prince Fahd."

"Could he have pissed anyone off?" Rodney asked, moving closer.

That was a difficult question to answer. "He was not used to the culture but the Dargarans treated him as an honored guest."

"But was it possible?" Sam pushed.

"Maybe, but the only real hostilities that took place were between Colonel Sheppard and Prince Fahd."

She felt horrible bringing that back up again; John was not a man who tolerated offense to anyone on his team. And if Fahd had offended any of the other guests, the Dargarans would not have done anything, she was sure of it.

"What about threats? Did anyone at the dinner seem displeased about anything?" Sam encouraged, grasping at straws.

Again Teyla shook her head, feeling as if she was the doomsayer. "There were disagreements among the assorted guests about business and town gossip. Shipping tariffs had increased, problems with the crops were troubling to some, but it was just your normal talk."

"Nothing out of the ordinary happened? Everyone sang songs and held hands?" Rodney mocked.

Teyla concentrated on voices and expressions, seeking any signs of a disturbance. Nothing. It was a dinner party; guests had a good time, she mingled. There had to be something... something that triggered John's desire to leave. If things at dinner had really been that peaceful, then the colonel would not have wanted to go in the middle of a large storm.

What did the colonel notice? John was content one moment then rushing to get them all away the next. He would have had his weapon out if there had been an immediate threat, though.

John was high strung and antsy. He kept looking behind his back as they hurried to the jumper. He was nervous, jumpy. All aspects of...

"Colonel Sheppard was very agitated," Teyla announced as if fully realizing things. "He was on full alert, now that I think back. He went from calm to cautious. He was in military mode."

Oh, the Ancestors, why hadn't she realized it before? Why after more than a week did things seem now to click in place?

Sam gravitated closer. "When did his personality change?"

Think! Teyla backtracked, looking for anything amiss. Everything was a blur. "John wanted some air after he confronted Prince Fahd about his remarks. He took off and after a while I began to worry."

The room was silent except for everyone's breathing. She knew they were waiting and she wracked her mind for the answers. "I saw him talking to a girl... I thought nothing of it."

"Sheppard flirting with the natives is nothing new," Rodney snorted.

"No, it wasn't that. He was aggravated; she was speaking to him intently and that's when he came back, anxious to leave." Teyla was angry at herself for not noticing the body language at the time.

"Do you remember the girl?" Sam asked.

"Yes, I am certain I would recognize her again. Perhaps she could shed some light on why John was in such a hurry to leave," Teyla suggested.

"I think that settles things. We should go back to the planet," Rodney said with gusto.

It was rare to see him so willing to volunteer to go on a mission, but it was understandable. Rodney was riled up; he needed an outlet for the mounting stress he heaved upon himself.

"And you are sure that the Dargarans have no technology capable of harming the jumper?" Sam looked to Teyla. "If there is something odd going on, I don't want any more surprises."

"You mean like hidden bunkers and underground cities?" Rodney asked sarcastically.

"That's exactly what I mean."

Teyla faced Colonel Carter. "I have never known the Dargarans to have anything beyond their steam powered boats. Their technology is a little more advanced than most cultures but they suffer from food shortages and damage from weather like everyone else. They are in need of medicines and do not even have a military of their own."

"I understand and yet we've seen so few societies approach such turn of the century advancements. We can't take a chance that they're hiding something more. I'll arrange for a military escort, but we need to be discreet about this. I don't want Pratt aware of what is going on until we confront him with evidence he can't dispute," Sam warned.

"That might be hard to do; the guy has his fingers in everything," Rodney muttered.

Sam smiled devilishly. "I think Major Lorne will keep him distracted enough."

Everyone looked at the colonel after her remark, but Sam wasn't elaborating.

"I want to go, too. I would like to take further readings to see if there was anything else that could have caused the power failure," Zelenka, who had been quiet, spoke up.

Teyla knew that Radek disliked going off world; she wished John would realize what he meant to so many people on Atlantis. The colonel always thought the worst of himself while everyone easily saw the best in him.

"I would like to join you. Perhaps my familiarity with Dargara..." Teyla shrugged as if it was obvious she had no real need to go besides just wanting to.

"Okay. Are you feeling up to this later today?" Sam asked her.

Teyla stroked her belly. "Yes, we are."

* * *

John sat straight up in bed, a mound of pillows cushioning his back. He adjusted the portable tray Harrison had brought from the infirmary. She had been kind enough to fill a bowl with warm water, placing it next to his razor and a jar of shaving cream before she left as if sensing that this was something he wanted and needed to do on his own. He applied the gooey gel to his fingertips and spread the foam over his face. Then he dipped the razor into the warm water, swishing it a little while he held the mirror with his left hand.

His glasses rested heavily at the tip of his nose and he pushed them up with his wrist irritably. He started with the front of his chin, getting rid of the scratchy stubble that seemed to re-grow instantaneously. Then he sucked down his upper lip to get the hairs there, baring fresh skin. He turned his head to the left, pressing the razor over the contour of his cheek to begin shaving his right side.

Staring out of the corners of his eyes started to make the room spin and his focus blur. "Damn it!"

The burly Russian's words echoed in his head. _"Very powerful lenses are good for straight ahead."_

His peripheral vision was still crappy and even his depth perception caused problems. His hand froze, afraid he might cut himself and he turned his head back to its normal position. The areas closest to his nose were a snap, but he couldn't see out of the corner of his eye to navigate the rest.

He felt his blood boil at his inability to do even this simple task.

"Sheppard?"

The voice startled him and he looked up to see Ronon standing in the middle of his room. "Oh, hey."

"You didn't answer the chime," the big guy gestured with his thumb.

He hadn't even heard it, and now he sat with lather all over his face. "Kinda busy," John grumbled.

"I can see that."

Ronon wasted no time walking towards the bed, studying the humiliating situation. "Want me to hold the mirror?"

"Sure," John said with a sigh, disgusted with himself.

It _was_ easier with two hands free; John was just gratified that Ronon didn't grab the razor and start doing it for him. Then he gave himself a mental shake of the head. Ronon would never do that.

"I learned how to shave without my reflection. It took time, but it was all about memorization," Ronon said nonchalantly.

"Can only see things clearly that are right in front of me with these things," John pointed at his glasses.

"Then close your eyes. Trust your hands. You've been doing this a long time." Ronon placed the mirror back on the table for added emphasis.

"You sound like Yoda," John snorted.

Ronon didn't say anything else so John took the moment to follow the advice, gliding the razor to the end of his jaw. After a few cautious strokes he traced the path with his left fingers, following it with a swipe of the blade and finishing without cutting his skin.

John took a washcloth and rinsed the last of the gel away, studied his clean face. "Thanks."

"Don't know how you use those plastic things," Ronon snorted.

"Hey, don't knock my razor. Thing has like four blades."

Ronon pulled out a slender knife. "Mine won't nick your skin."

"But it can slit your throat. I'll stick with this one," John said, rubbing his left cheek.

Ronon cleaned off the little table and bent over, grabbing a bag off the floor and unloading it. He pulled out a plate loaded with scrambled eggs, toast and a mound of hash browns.

John pulled over the table and appraised the feast. Spending over a week eating mostly soft and liquid meals based on a list of nutritional requirements instead of taste had gotten old real quick. "You brought me breakfast."

"Yeah," Ronon shrugged. "There's a fork and knife in the bag," he said, snagging a grapefruit. Then he walked over to the minifridge. "You want apple or orange juice?"

"Doesn't matter," John sighed. The food had improved but measuring volume, calorie and vitamin intake was still part of his daily life. He fumbled the juice box in mid-air when Ronon tossed it to him but managed to keep it on the bed. "You eating too?" he asked when he didn't see a second plate.

"Already did."

"So you're just gonna watch me eat?"

"Wasn't planning on it."

It had been a big relief to be released to his quarters, to be surrounded by his things, and sleep in his own bed. It represented solitude- not the kind hidden in a deserted part of the city or on a pier, but a place to relax with his thoughts. The problem was, he'd never really been left alone enough to crawl into the back of his head and deal with all the shit he kept burying in the darker parts. He spread too much butter on his bread, watching Ronon poke around his things.

"Looking for something?" he asked, tearing a hole in the now soggy toast.

Ronon stood straighter as if he hadn't been caught snooping. "No." He turned to face him, obviously restless and unsure what to do. "You want me to open the curtains?"

"No. Leave 'em." John watched Ronon drop the heavy fabric and fold his hands to keep from fiddling with them.

The antsiness seemed too much to deal with. Ronon grabbed a chair near his desk and dragged it over to plop down. "The light still bother you?"

Light. Talking. Nursemaids. Overbearing friends. Heavy glasses that never stayed up. John shoved his still mostly full tray away, throwing his napkin down on top of it. "Yeah," he growled. To prove a point, he rubbed at a twinge in his temple and glanced over to see his large teammate staring at him. "What?"

"What what?"

"What are you doing?"

"I'm hanging out with you. You'd do the same if I was in that bed and you'd tell me to deal with it." Ronon stretched out his long legs and began slicing open his fruit. "So, sleep or talk."

It was tough to bully someone who didn't take crap and John felt sufficiently chastised, but he didn't have to like it. "Hand me the last two pill bottles, would ya?" He swallowed his anti-seizure medication and the tiny pain pill. "Think after this kicks in, we could try for the balcony again?"

"Does Keller know you've been doing things without two people helping?" Ronon asked, peeling the skin off his fruit.

"No, but that hasn't stopped you from helping me the last few times."

"I dunno... I think your nurse is supposed to be here this morning."

Damn it, he wanted to do something. He actually felt decent today, no flare ups in his chest or belly. His hip was sufficiently rested and relaxed after taking all his meds like a good little patient. Hell, he'd even taken his sleeping pills after his 'talk' with Keller and, for a change, old ghosts hadn't woken him up in a sweat. All the pharmaceuticals coursing through his veins usually added an extra layer of weird and scary to his nightly demons.

"You're scared of Lt. Harrison? All five-foot four of her?"

Ronon tossed a piece of grapefruit in his mouth, smiling coyly. "Don't think she likes me, thinks I tire you out."

"Coward," John huffed.

His friend got an evil glint in his eye. "Fine. After she's gone. Why not go all the way to the second balcony?"

John imagined Keller, hands on her hips and the resulting hours of pain a little extra trek would cause. He rubbed at his hip. Exhaustion _was_ a natural sleeping aid. "You're on."

Ronon bounced to his feet. "I'll have you walking in no time." Then he rifled through one of his bookshelves, his finger stopping on a worn cardboard box. "Wanna play checkers?"

It was rare he could get the big guy to sit still long enough for board games and John didn't want to try watching DVDs yet. "Sure."

They traded colors back and forth. Changed up the rules about draws after they'd spent half an hour chasing each other's kings across the board until John gave up. They played a couple of rounds of suicide checkers until Ronon complained that he didn't see the point of winning if you 'lost' all your pieces.

At first, John found screwing around like this fun, taking his mind off of the stuff he wanted to deal with in private. It was nice to shoot the shit and not dwell on things out of his control. By the twelfth match though, the game was feeling more and more like a diversion created by a bored babysitter. The idle chit chat became strained and pointless and whatever pleasure there had been at the beginning was now long gone.

"I win," Ronon proclaimed.

John didn't bother looking at the board and leaned back, rubbing at his eyes. He stared at his blue t-shirt and boxers, wanting to change into some fresh clothes but he still couldn't balance on one leg and bend over at the same time. He loathed the idea of asking for help but usually when Lt. Harrison or the battleaxe was around, he could stomach having to depend on them.

"You gonna take a nap now?" Ronon asked casually as he packed up the game board and men.

"No, I've only been up a few hours," John growled irritably. He looked over at his friend's neutral expression. "Don't expect a whole lot, big guy. I'm not up for entertaining people." To prove his point he reached over to his nightstand, ignoring how it pulled on his ribs and gut to grab his book. It hurt, but he hadn't put out an ad for a full-time nanny.

Ronon reached over to nudge the novel closer without a word, but he glanced at the cover. His eyebrow rose with amusement. "_Harry Potter?"_

"What about it?" John asked defensively, flipping to where he'd left off. He found the page and adjusted the reading lamp he had clipped to his headboard.

Ronon got up and grabbed John's laptop, booting it up. "It's a kid's book."

"Millions of adults would disagree from what I've been told." John glanced over and caught the disbelief in the Satedan's eyes. "It doesn't involve blue dogs or purple dinosaurs that sing and dance."

"All of your children's books have talking animals, super cool parents and happy endings. I bet that's why Earth kids are so soft. They're lied to about the real world. No one dies; no one is killed."

"Hey, you've never read any of the Brothers Grimm or Hans Christian Andersen. It's not our fault Disney turned all the scary stuff into cute and cuddly things to sell a ton of toys. Besides, that's what childhood is all about. Dreams and hope."

"Dreams and hope won't save your life in a fight," Ronon argued.

"You know Earth is different," John replied. He pulled the sheets into his lap to ward off a chill. He really wanted to put on some sweats. "And for your information, this book is different."

Ronon flipped down the screen. "How? The cover has a kid with a broom between his legs and a goofy cape."

"I haven't gotten to how he rides the broom, yet." John cleared his throat "And it's magical; he uses it to fly."

Ronon was giving him his _your Earth crap is stupid_ expression again.

"The kid in the book has to live under the stairs."

"Is he chained up?" Ronon asked eagerly.

"Um, no."

Ronon didn't appear impressed.

"His Aunt and Uncle treat him like crap and his fat-assed cousin bullies him all the time."

"Does he end up killing them all?"

John found defending his choice in reading material a little silly, but he wasn't about to have his taste in literature questioned by a guy who judged books by body count and cool fight scenes. Not to mention his pride was at stake. "No, but owls keep dropping off these letters and stuff and his evil family hides them all. Then, finally, this giant guy shows up and tells Harry- that's the kid- that he's a wizard." John's eyes actually lit up. "Pretty cool, huh?"

"Does he get powers and kick a lot of ass?" Ronon asked with a little excitement.

John peered down at his book and flipped to the next page. "I think that's coming. There's like a ton of books in the series. He's going to, um..." He scratched at the back of his neck. "He's going to Wizard School."

Ronon actually rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the computer. John winced at how hard he clacked the keyboard. "There's a bunch of new games on there now. Knock yourself out. I'd stick to the file labeled 'Shooters'."

"Good, I don't like your other ones, too slow."

John wasn't about to lecture about the real time strategy games or the RPGs that McKay kept downloading. The darn things sucked away all his memory, but then Rodney would just add more. He carefully messed with the pillows behind him, shifting his lower body carefully. Keller had been right about one thing- he'd never slept on his back and never, ever laid or sat up in the same place for very long before this. Bad circulation was still a big concern and he didn't want to have to wear those stupid pants that did the massage thing.

Reading was nice, being _able _to was even cooler. He'd never take words for granted again and if--no, _when_ his sight was fixed, he planned on reading more than mission reports and his unwieldy Tolstoy novel. Harry was kind of a cool kid he had to admit and he found himself engrossed, despite the occasional distraction of what sounded like Ronon's attempt to destroy his laptop.

It was strange, the routine of the few days since returning to his quarters. A member of his team would show up-- not just drop by-- but come and hang out for an hour or two. He understood, to a degree, their desire to keep him company. Teyla talked, which was nice, but sometimes he couldn't help but dwell on how bad things could have been for her and her baby. Rodney babbled about work or tried to help out in his own way but his nervous flapping about could get nerve-wracking and most of their visits dissolved into John sniping and lashing out at the poor hapless physicist. Ronon's visits were the oddest. The guy wasn't a conversationalist by nature so he'd wander in and grab up the computer or a magazine or comic, put his feet up and not say a word for an hour at a time.

Much like today.

John read while Ronon killed computer generated bad guys. Time passed slowly and he was getting to an interesting part in the book. He was curious about the Voldemort guy, but his head began throbbing and invisible ice picks began burrowing through his eyes. He dropped the book into his lap, kneading his temples.

Ronon's deep timbered voice startled him. "Need something?"

"Nah. It's the glasses."

"I thought they helped?"

"They do... it's just... I'm only supposed to read a few times a day until my eyes get used to them." John took the heavy glasses off and flipped over the thick lens. "The prisms force my eye muscles to work right. Right now they don't...so the more I use 'em..."

"The more likely they will," Ronon finished.

"Yeah," John sighed.

"You seem to be... you know, seeing better."

"Yeah, so I've been told."

"The tests--"

"Ronon..." John took a deep breath as he tried to tamp down the ember of anger. "Not now."

He really hated this- being a jerk towards his friends, especially when they were just trying to help his sorry ass. Maybe he should talk to Keller about reducing his meds; having his blood saturated with so many chemicals had to behind these—these-- mood swings. He didn't know what else to do about his mercurial demeanor, a scale that ranged from McKay Crabby to biting the heads off of small puppies.

"I'm sorry for bitching. I'm just..." John allowed his words to trail.

"Don't worry. I'll get you back in the gym," Ronon replied.

"I look forward to that day."

"So do I."

The door chimed and Lt. Harrison poked her head in. "Ring, ring," she said, walking over.

"Why it's my favorite nurse," John smiled for once.

"And you're my favorite Colonel, sir," she said, swooping in with a doctor's bag. She bounced expectantly on her toes. "I know you want this over as quickly as possible. Wanna give me an arm?"

John held it out, submitting to the routine vitals check. She wrapped a BP cuff around his bicep and gave him a long, appraising look as she pumped the bulb. "Lookin' good, sir. How are you feelin'?"

Ronon watched out of the corner of his eye, obviously trying to give an air of privacy. "Got a bit of a headache, but I just read for an hour."

"That'll do it. Be sure to tell me if it gets any worse," she said as she let the air out of the cuff with a hiss. "Any pain? Nausea?"

"Nope."

Harrison looked at him, then eyed Ronon suspiciously. "You plannin' on another walk?"

"Not right now," he fibbed.

"Okay. Just so you know, you graduated to an assisted shower and I thought you might like to have it after any exercise today."

John felt his cheeks flush and he glared at Ronon who chuckled at his expense. Harrison took exception to the perception that her patient was being made fun of. She strolled up to the big guy, craned her neck and looked him right in the eye. "I've got to examine the colonel. Maybe you could find somethin' to do." She walked over to a hamper, dug through it and dumped a load of clothes into a basket, handing it to Ronon. "How about doin' the colonel's laundry." It wasn't the question it seemed to be.

It took everything in John not to burst out in laughter at his friend's expression, but Ronon hefted the clothes. "I'll be right back. By the way, I think Sheppard wants some new clothes," he said before leaving.

Harrison placed her hands on her hips, a trait taught in nursing school no doubt. "Need to change, sir?"

John would kill Ronon later. "Please."

Harrison checked his wound, his hip, his eyes and seemingly all points in between and asked him a ton of questions. Seeming satisfied, she snagged some clothes from a pile folded on top of his dresser. After ten minutes, he was left huffing and puffing and feeling every inch of his battered body, but at least he had on a fresh US Marines tee, a gift passed on by Lorne from some of the men. For such a tiny thing, Harrison was deceptively strong and she held him up while he got his second foot into the black sweats; he didn't even argue when she pulled them up the last few feet. Then he sat the side of the bed, trying to catch his breath while she tidied up the area.

His com piece chirped, but Harrison, eyeing his heaving chest, picked it up and looked for permission to answer for him.

John just tiredly nodded his assent.

"This is Lt. Harrison. Yes? ... Okay... I'll be sure to tell him," she replied, clicking it off and putting it back down on his table. "Mr. Dex has been snagged to help move some heavy equipment around. He won't be back for a few hours."

There went his walk and the last of his spirits. His pain pill had kicked in a little while ago and all he had waited on was the Lieutenant's visit to be done.

"If you don't mind me sayin', you're lookin' a little glum, sir," she said.

John had to hand it to the nurse, she was observant. "I wanted to get up for a while."

"I can make that happen, Colonel. I can snag one of the Marines outside to help. You know the rule. Two people."

"What... Marines?"

"Um, the ones always hangin' around in the hall, sir."

John stared at the closed door. "All the time?"

"Yes, well, if one of your teammates isn't present, they are."

What the hell? Were they freaking _guarding_ him?

"I'll go grab whoever's out there," Harrison said cheerfully.

"No!" John yelled. "Don't worry about it," he added more quietly. He wasn't about to ask one of his men to help their CO hobble down the hall.

"Colonel. It's not a problem, I'll just--"

"Forget it."

"I know this is a difficult transition period and you feel the weight of your rank and responsibility towards the city. But, you're not Superman, sir."

"I don't need two people to walk. Keller's just being overly cautious."

"I think Dr. Keller knows what's best. Sir."

That stung and it made him wonder how much of that sentiment was going around. He gave the closed door another furious glare. "I've even gotten up by myself a few times," he answered, standing to prove his point.

"Sir!"

"I don't need your help!" John gritted his teeth, wrapped an arm around his middle and hobbled as fast as he could to the chair in the corner. When he reached it he fought not to just collapse into the cushion, forced himself to lower his butt down slowly and steadily.

Harrison followed him every step of the way until he got situated. "I'll send Audrey by for that shower if you still want it. Or maybe you could try a shower chair instead?" she offered in a clear attempt at cheering him up.

"Sounds like a plan," John replied unenthusiastically.

"Well, good. Consider it done. I'll send the chair over for when you're ready." When he failed to respond she added, lightly teasing, "Maybe those extra therapy sessions with Mr. Dex you've been sneakin' in are helpin', huh, sir?"

"Maybe," he echoed in a distracted voice.

"Okay. Well, if you need anythin', Colonel, you know who to call," she said as she packed up her kit and headed out.

John didn't answer until she was gone and there was only the lingering scent of lilac left in the room.

_Evidently, I can call the Marines outside my door. _


	15. Chapter 15 of 22

Rodney had never had a problem with flying. As long as the seat given to him was comfortable and no one around him was wearing too much perfume or not enough deodorant. As long as there were no babies with dirty diapers, kids who ran up and down the aisles knocking his elbow, rude jerks who reclined their seats too far back and laid practically in his lap…

But the flight itself never scared him the way it did many. Earplugs, an extra battery or three for his laptop and a working stewardess call button were the only things he required to be perfectly happy, no matter how long the flight. Because Rodney understood how planes stayed in the air. The physics made it perfectly acceptable once you knew the air resistance coefficients and lift equations.

So after flights that literally circled the globe, from Russia to Toronto to the Antarctic and most points in-between, after jumper trips spanning the light years between planets and trans-_galactic_ journeys on the various Asgard ships, Rodney found himself paranoid about the five kilometer trip from the gate to Tellen and Mina's home on Dargara.

And he was the one flying the damn jumper.

"What was that?"

"A bird, Rodney," Zelenka said with a sigh. "In all probability, the same bird you saw a minute ago. I think it is outpacing us."

"I am flying _cautiously."_

"You are flying _badly_," Zelenka said harshly. "It is like riding in an old Trabant with a rusty clutch. If you fly any slower we will probably stall out."

"Ha ha," Rodney snarked. "Why don't you fly us? - Oh, that's right, you _can't._ Stop being a back seat driver."

"I am in the co-pilot seat, Rodney," Zelenka said mildly, pushing up his glasses as he turned to their quiet companion. "How are you feeling, Teyla?"

"Fine, thank you," Radek, was the soft reply. It wasn't the first time Rodney wished they'd installed a rear-view mirror; he wasn't willing to take his view from the front windscreen but he would have liked to see how Teyla was faring. While she'd offered to come on this jaunt back to Dargara, it was with doubt and concern that Rodney had accepted. Her arm was still very sore, and she was also still very obviously pregnant and they were headed back to where Sky King Sheppard had crashed. Rodney's command of the jumper was practicable but rough… rougher than he cared to admit, frankly. If they faced whatever had brought the jumper down the last time…

Another life sign registered briefly on the HUD, approximately ten meters away and closing. He recognized it as the same damn bird. The stupid thing seemed to think it was a game to dive-bomb the craft and then veer sharply away just prior to crashing into it like a sparrow against a picture window.

He was contemplating how difficult it would be to hit the annoyance with a drone when Zelenka's voice interrupted his murderous intentions.

"There, Rodney. The field."

"Thank you, for pointing out the obvious," Rodney muttered as he lowered the jumper in the fallow field at the edge of the woods that bordered Tellen's property.

Maybe his touchdown wasn't as smoothly executed as one of Sheppard's but there was no reason for Zelenka's gasped clutching at the console as the craft bounced once before settling. He shot the Czech an exasperated look, then started flipping the switches that powered down the jumper. After a moment's consideration he decided to set the cloak.

"Rodney, the whole planet saw us and they know our jumper very well. Wouldn't it have been wiser to use the cloak for the entire journey, not now, making it difficult for us to find the jumper on our return?"

"Well excuse me for taking precautions! And why didn't you speak up earlier when--"

"--Gentlemen!" Teyla spoke up sharply. Rodney turned in his seat to rebuke Teyla for interrupting when he saw her mouth had knitted tightly with pain and annoyance. Discretion was the better part of valor, or at least he'd been told on numerous occasions. Maybe now was the time to give it a shot.

"Sorry," he said shortly. "Come on - let's go play detective." His face lit up briefly as he glanced at his watch. "Hey, I think it's tea time here. Maybe Mina will have some of those honeycakes."

Radek snorted out a laugh. "Rodney, we just finished breakfast."

"I'm not looking for another whole meal," Rodney protested as he patted his belly. "Just some of those lovely cakes…"

* * *

After a short walk they came across some children playing catch. A particularly grubby-faced boy tore off from the group and ran for the house, screaming of the Atlantians' arrival.

Mina came out the front door, wiping her hands on her apron, a cautious smile on her face as the group approached. Her smile broadened as she noted Teyla was part of the group and she quickly enfolded the Athosian in her arms.

"What a welcome sight," she said happily. "Oh, thank the Gods for your survival of such a horrific event, Teyla."

Teyla smiled and returned the hug with one arm. "I am happy to see you as well, Mina."

"And Dr. Z!" she exclaimed with a broad grin. She enfolded Zelenka in a friendly hug, knocking his glasses askew. When she stepped back Rodney rolled his eyes at the blush on the Czech's face.

"The improvements you made on Tellen's boat are a revelation, Dr. Z," the woman continued to gush.

Improvements? Rodney darted an incredulous look at the fuzzy-haired scientist. "What improvements?"

Zelenka pushed his glasses back into place. "Steam engine technology," he said with a shrug. "I read up on it, made some changes to the cylinder. Their pressure was too low. And I upped their combustion and evaporation rates and condenser capacity --"

Rodney just silenced him with a wave of his hand. "Did you have fun playing Industrial Revolution?"

"Actually, I--"

"Gentlemen…" Teyla said with a low growl. Rodney was startled by how similar it was to Sheppard's voice and the reminder was a dash of cold water.

The older woman stepped back and gestured into the house. "Come! It is just time for our afternoon tea."

Rodney stepped up with a smile but his brief anticipation was quickly torpedoed.

"Thank you," Teyla broke in smoothly. "But I'm afraid we are here for a reason other than visitation."

Mina nodded in understanding. "How is Colonel Sheppard?"

"He is better, thank you. But you are correct in your reasoning. I was hoping to speak to a woman I saw at the dinner party the night of the storm. She was among your serving staff."

"I'm not sure what my staff could do for you, Teyla," Mina said with obvious curiosity. "You know most of those that work in the house already. Munro is my husband's right hand man, practically family. He handles all the books, the scheduling. Gully watches the grandchildren --"

"Of course, I know them well, Mina. But this woman was a server only. She was not familiar to me. She was young, pretty. Her hair was the red of the clay at your riverbanks."

Mina shook her head. "I have no permanent serving staff. Most were hired for the dinner… oh! I think I know the one you speak of! Yes, her name was Leona… no… Leora! Yes, Leora. You're right, she is quite fetching. She's one of Brenon's girls." She snorted and smiled grimly. "Until recently Brenon was one of Dargara's wealthiest men. And he likes to throw big events." Then she shrugged. "To each his own, of course."

"Yes, yes," Rodney broke in impatiently. Left to their own devices the two women would probably prattle away the whole afternoon. "How do we reach her?"

"Reach her?" Mina echoed doubtfully.

"Yes, reach her. Call her?" Rodney made a phone out of his thumb and pinky and shook it in front of his ear.

Mina continued to stare at him blankly.

Zelenka slapped the back of his hand sharply against Rodney's arm.

"What?"

"Industrial revolution, remember? They are about fifty years away from telegraph if they follow Earth," Zelenka said pointedly. "And even more from the telephone."

Rodney sighed loudly. "Semaphores? Smoke signals? Pony Express?"

Teyla smiled tightly and gave an apologetic look to Mina. "I believe what Dr. McKay is asking is if you have means of communicating with the other homes and businesses?"

"Of course," the older woman said.

"Oh, good!" Rodney exhaled.

"We write letters. There is a place in the center of town where they can be brought and sent out with the ships in port. And we have the bell towers that ring out alarms for fires and such."

Rodney threw his hands up in exasperation. "Back to the jumper!"

He was already wheeling about to leave when he heard Mina say, "If you are going to Brenon's, he is not there. You will not be granted entrance to his manse when he is not there; I understand he runs a very tight ship, so to speak."

"Well, where is he?"

"With Tellen," Mina replied simply. "My husband agreed to help him with his crop recovery. Brenon lost almost a third of his harvest in the last storm."

Rodney dropped his head in defeat. All this time wasted, nothing to show for it. And he didn't even get his honeycake.

With a tight rein on his frustration he smiled thinly at Mina then tossed his head at Zelenka and Teyla. "We may as well check out the crash site one more time while we're here. I have some new readings I'd like to try now that we have a better idea what happened to the jumper."

* * *

The Barrens started gradually, the change in the topography beginning with gentle green swells in the vast pastures that bordered them. The swells became hillocks, and the green grasses gave way to rocky soil. Boulders big as Chevys left behind by the planet's long ago glacier retreat sat where the ice river had left them millions of years before. Here and there were small clusters of wildflowers in pinks and yellows, even heather purple.

From above it was all quite pretty. Down on the ground… not so much.

"Damn it! Oh, my God… oh, that hurts…"

"Rodney, are you all right?" Teyla's question sounded concerned but there was a clear taint of exasperation in there. Maybe even a little condescension.

"Yessss," he hissed, pulling his boot out from where it had lodged between two bowling ball sized rocks. He worked his ankle around, tensed for the sharp pain of a broken bone or at least a bad sprain but the joint moved freely with only a modicum of ache.

"Are you sure you are not hurt?"

"Not this time," he spat. "This place is a frickin' minefield. You can't step _anywhere_ without almost breaking an ankle, and then I'd just go tumbling down and probably break my arm…" Mentally cuffing himself in the head he trailed off with "…to boot."

He looked up to see that Teyla had moved closer and her expression had softened with genuine worry. Here she was, one arm swathed inches thick in bandages to cover the hardware holding her bones together and _pregnant_, and she hadn't stumbled once that he'd seen. She seemed to float above the rock-strewn ground with nary a gasp or falter. God, to have that kind of grace…

"I'm fine," he said, more contrite this time. He sighed and wiped his arm across his sweat-dotted brow. "Nothing. There's nothing here but rocks and more rocks. And they aren't even interesting rocks!"

"Oh, I'd have to disagree."

Teyla and Rodney turned to see a smiling Zelenka holding two melon sized rocks in his hands, one pink and grey banded, the other a more reddish brown. As he turned them in the sun, little glints of reflection sparkled over their surfaces.

He walked towards them, picking his way skillfully over the rocky terrain. "I believe this is metamorphic," he noted as he drew closer, hefting the pink and grey banded one aloft. "It's gneiss."

"Yes, yes, it's quite nice," Rodney said with a dismissive wave. "The pink complements the--"

"--No, Rodney," Zelenka said with a huff. "Not _nice_. Gneiss. G-n-e-i-s-s. It is similar to granite. Shows evidence of pressure and temperature changes. The protolith could be igneous, showing volcanic activity, or--"

"--And this is important, how, Radek?"

The Czech muttered, _"Alespo__ň__ to zkouším; nevidím však __ž__e bys ty d__ě__lal n__ě__co jiného n__ěž__ si st__ěž__oval,_" and dropped the pretty rock to the ground. Rodney didn't know any Czech but figured there were some choice words there for him.

"Okay. _Please_ tell me how this is important," Rodney tried with more patience.

"Actually, I'm not sure about that one," Zelenka said with a shrug. "But this one," he said more brightly, "I thought at first was schist--"

"Sh--"

"--schiSt, Rodney," Zelenka scowled with a roll of his eyes. "But it isn't schist. It's schistose hematite."

Rodney's eyebrows went skyward. "Hematite, huh?"

"I'm sorry," Teyla broke in. "How is this of significance to the crash?"

Rodney's head was already taking off down the corridor Zelenka had opened. _And_ _who knew the little Czech physicist was a secret rockhound? _He started talking out loud, trying to explain to Teyla but his words couldn't even keep up with his rapid-fire mental _aha_'s!

"Hematite is an antiferromagnetic material below the Morin transition at 260 K, and a canted antiferromagnet or weakly ferromagnetic above the Morin transition and below its Néel temperature at 948K, above which it is paramagnetic!"

Zelenka was nodding so hard his glasses threatened to fall off the end of his nose but Teyla was clearly more mystified than before Rodney started his explanation.

Shaking his head he forced himself to tamp down his intellect and bring it down for Teyla. He spread his arms wide, a small tag of dirty gauze fluttering off his hand in the breeze. "This is a massive field of iron ore."

"And…?" Teyla said, practically tapping her foot.

And… _and what? _He sagged a little. "Well, I'm not sure yet. I'll need to run some tests."

She was already shaking her head. "Just moments ago you were both exclaiming as if you had found a great discovery. I do not understand…"

Rodney exchanged a look with Zelenka; the Czech just shrugged and looked away.

"See, it's just that the ferromagnetism… I mean, the storms - an electrical storm- would produce lightning which would, of course, be attracted to the iron ore. Well, not so much attracted as --"

"--And the inertial dampeners," Zelenka broke in. "They produce an electromagnetic field--"

"--Yes!" Rodney seized on it. "And iron, when exposed to electromagnetic fields, _stays magnetized._ And, well…" He trailed off. "That's all."

"I still do not understand," Teyla said, anger and impatience sharpening her tone.

"Look, it's the first thing we've seen on this stupid planet besides boats, cows and giant rocks. It's the first thing that even has the _potential_ of having any effect on an Ancient jumper a thousand feet above it. It…"

Zelenka dropped the hunk of ore to the ground with a dejected sigh, then kicked it a few feet away for good measure. He glared balefully at the rock. "_Pitomý kus scaly..." _

Teyla nodded tiredly, knowingly, then put her hand on the small of her back and gazed off into the sky. The breeze was kicking up and it played with the ends of her hair.

"I smell rain," she said quietly.

"Of course you do," Rodney sighed. "You know, God forbid we catch a single break! This is just -- it's like a giant cosmic joke!" he screamed at the darkening sky, hands held out in supplication. "What? Why?"

He exhaled slowly and dropped his hands. Shuffled clumsily over the hazardous ground to snag up his laptop from where it rested on a large boulder and shove it angrily into his backpack. "Come on. This is ridiculous," he muttered. "Maybe there is no reason. Maybe the jumper and everything on board just decided it didn't feel like working anymore. Because that's the way I feel."

He kicked a skull-sized rock with the toe of his boot, watched it roll several feet away, then started trundling off back towards the jumper, not really caring if Teyla and Zelenka were following.

"Rodney…"

He heard Zelenka call his name, soundly ignored it, and kept his eyes glued to the ground, partially because he was pouting and partially to keep an eye out for boot-eating, ankle-breaking crevices.

"Rodney…"

He raised a hand tiredly, waved off Zelenka's call at his back. "I'm done, Radek. There's nothing here. Sheppard's gonna get blamed, and they'll probably demote him to private or whatever they have in the Air Force. We let him down… I mean, he'll know we tried but--"

"--Rodney!"

Zelenka's voice had a tremulous urgency that made Rodney stop in his tracks. Truthfully, he'd been walking so slowly, picking his way delicately over the rocks, that he hadn't gotten more than ten feet from where he'd last stood. He turned and glared at the little physicist.

"What, Radek? What, what, _what_?"

Zelenka held his own laptop and he was staring with intensity at the screen. He slowly pulled his eyes away and turned the computer towards Rodney.

"There was… there was an energy spike. I saw it. It.. It looked…"

Rodney took a step forward. Paused. "It looked like what, Radek?"

"I…" Now Zelenka was shaking his head as he bent over the screen chewing fervently on his bottom lip. "There was a spike, but… it's gone now. It was probably just an anomaly. An artifact, maybe from the approaching storm."

"No." Rodney raised his bandage covered hand and pointed at the Czech. Shook his finger angrily. "No, you said it looked like -- it looked like what?"

Zelenka pulled in a deep breath and knocked his glasses into place, a sign that Rodney recognized as the physicist's favorite stall tactic. Given time the glasses would come right off and he'd start cleaning them with the tail of his shirt.

"It looked like a reading we would see if Ancient technology were in use," Radek finally poured out. "It is obviously a mistake. As I said, an anomaly. There is no naquadah on this planet."

"Would you expect to find an anomaly of this nature?" Teyla ventured cautiously.

"It's called an anomaly because it's unexpected," Rodney huffed imperiously. His response earned a sharply raised eyebrow and he stammered out an apology. "Sorry. And if you mean what I think you mean, and I'm pretty sure I do… know what you mean… no, this anomaly would be… anomalous."

"I cannot imagine what else could cause a reading to be as similar as this one appeared," Radek chimed in.

"No. No, neither can I," Rodney agreed. He unslung his backpack off his shoulder and pulled out his own laptop. "Tell me what you were monitoring for, what parameters you had it set at, where you were physically when the readings started. What the temperature was at the time, the sunlight radiation levels…"

Teyla settled herself on a large rock and rested her hand on her belly as she kept watch on the sky. The two scientists hunkered down over their laptops and were quickly lost to the world around them.

An hour later, Rodney took his first real look up from his laptop screen.

Teyla, noting the brief interruption in the work, rose with obvious stiffness from the rock. The wind was much stronger and she held her arm closely around herself against the dropping temperature.

"Rodney, Radek. I believe it is time now."

"Yes, yes," Rodney said with a stuttered nod. His eyes were already back on the readouts, scanning for even the smallest blip. There had been nothing since the spike that Radek had reported; had the man not pulled up the record of the event, Rodney would have almost been willing to drop it, call it an anomaly, call it a burp in the planet's magnetic field, call it Czech eyestrain and hoping for something that wasn't there.

But it _was _there. And Zelenka was right. The reading showed the presence of naquadah. Where there was supposedly known to be none. Their initial visits to the planet had eventually included botanists and zoologists, hydrologists and limnologists, and of course, geologists. Had naquadah been found, suffice it to say that Dargara would have been overrun with SGC and IOA hand-shakers and money-offerers and a mining colony would already be in place.

The first cold drop hit the back of his neck and he brushed it off irritably, his eyes pinned to his screen.

"Rodney," Teyla tried again. "We must get back to the jumper."

"She is right, Rodney. We can come back again. Maybe try something new."

"No," Rodney muttered distractedly. His fingers flew over the keys, entering new parameters. He barely noticed the pull of his still healing burn. Maybe if he tried _this…_

Another drop of water struck his head, one dripped from the top of his screen. His thumb just wiped it free impatiently.

"Rodney." Zelenka's voice came close to his ear and he felt a hand on his arm. "Come on, we must go now. We still have to walk back to the jumper."

He pulled away, his eyes remaining on the screen. "I think if I change from milligauss to microgauss, I might--"

"--Rodney, we need to go now." Zelenka wrapped his hand around Rodney's arm again and tugged insistently.

"Please, Rodney."

He looked up at the sound of Teyla's pleading voice. Her hair was being tossed about wildly, and her arm was wrapped so tightly about herself she was almost bent over.

"There is nothing here, Rodney. Come, we must go."

"There is something here, Radek! I'm certain that if I could just --"

"--Rodney!" Radek's voice softened as he continued. "Look, we all want to find something. But this was a dead end. We will try something else another day. The rain is coming and we have to go. Now."

"This is something, Radek," Rodney said as he clambered painfully to his feet. He shoved his laptop into his backpack and glared at the gathering thunderclouds. "And why are you two Chicken Littles acting like the sky is falling? So it rains?" he said exasperatedly.

"If Colonel Sheppard could not fly in one this planet's storms, Rodney, what makes you think that _you_ can?"

Rodney opened his mouth, a half-formed retort on his lips. "You have a point," was his reply instead. "Fine. Let's head back. Sheppard will be interested in my findings anyway. I'll need to know --"

"Rodney, what are you going to tell the colonel?" Zelenka asked in surprise. "That we might have gotten a reading for an unknown reason and it is similar to something else but we don't know why and couldn't get it to happen again?"

"No. What I _am _going to do is offer the man a crumb, a pittance. A maybe, possibly, could be. Something to keep striving for. What, I should go back and tell him, too bad, Sheppard, it was nice knowing you, I'll look you up if I'm ever back in the Milky Way Galaxy?"

He shook his head and began the trek back to the jumper. Over his shoulder he muttered, "You know, Radek, if I'm ever at the end of my rope, I don't want you holding the other end."

* * *

Lorne slouched in the faded leather chair playing with a Game Boy he'd found hidden in one of the desk drawers. Screwing around with Mario was more fun than reading all the Marine captains' analyses of their platoons and the rotation of their rifle companies. He needed to integrate the newest batch of arrivals into several tours of duty ending this month; eighty percent had volunteered for another year, but there were still slots (often left involuntarily) to fill. Of course, things would be simpler if he understood the Colonel's filing system; he swore it was based on some secret code that only Sheppard knew.

After dying on level nine he shoved the Game Boy away, sent the new duty roster for Carter's approval and decided to let the captains duke it out over the changes. He still had to organize the rescue drill scheduled for next week. The botanist lab had been randomly picked and the geeks were in an uproar over having their important work disrupted. He was tired of reading e-mails about how "catastrophic" it would be if any of their specimens got damaged by the re-enactment. Lorne chuckled; they were just pissed off that they all had to play 'victims'.

He looked up at a knock at the door. "Come in, Gunny," he gestured.

Sgt. Pulaski entered the tiny office, saluting. "I discovered a problem with that latest batch of ordnance during my inspection this morning, sir."

This wasn't how Lorne wanted to end his day. "What's the problem?"

"I'm not sure if it's more budget concerns or another shipping screw-up, but they sent us the FN P-90s instead of the USG versions," the supply sergeant said, clearly disgusted.

Lorne wracked his brain over the difference; he knew the FNs were the Saudi versions. "Sorry, Sergeant, refresh my memory. Why's that bad?"

"The FN has no standard sight. We have to flip to day or night manually. The USG has two more Picatinny rails and we need those to attach the lights or our laser sights."

"Gotcha. Are we running low? And when's the next shipment?" He didn't want to be caught without a good supply if they had to defend the city without notice.

"They'll dock us in the weapons' budget when we return 'm, even if they're the ones that screwed up," the burly man huffed. "We won't get re-supplied for another three weeks. This ain't an emergency. We got plenty of gear, but --"

"--Okay, Gunny. Re-order the USGs and we'll use these as emergency back-ups and yes, I know it's twelve cases, but maybe we can switch some out for the supply we use in training. Make the new guys practice with these and they'll become experts with the correct ones."

Pulaski's lips curled into a smile. "Yes, sir."

"Anything else?"

The sergeant looked torn, shuffling his feet, but his square jaw and chin jutted slightly.

"You can always speak freely, Gunny."

"Some of the men don't understand why that IOA guy keeps coming up to them with questions about the colonel. He's got mission reports and all these harebrained ideas... the guys don't wanna talk about the Colonel but he says we hafta."

Pulaski's tone was honest and to the point. Lorne had heard the rumblings and whispers in the barracks, but there was a reason for everything. "Don't worry about it. Just answer the man's questions."

"Of course. If that's all then, sir?" Pulaski asked as he snapped another salute.

"Thanks for the report. Oh, and, Gunny. Try wearing a hat next time you're in the sun; that bald head doesn't look good red," he added with a smile as the sergeant left. Then he sighed and pulled out the details on the rescue drill that he and Sheppard had put together before the colonel's accident.

There was a loud noise in the hallway and he looked up, half expecting Pulaski to pop back in after forgetting something, but he was treated instead to a very irate looking Pratt. The bureaucrat stormed into the office and slammed the door hard enough to shake the walls.

"You could try knocking," Lorne dead-panned in a very Sheppard-like way. He'd known this was coming sooner or later.

"You and I are going to have a little chat, Major," Pratt announced.

Lorne did a double take, noticing for the first time the layer of filth that covered Pratt's three-piece Armani suit. The dark navy jacket was soiled by patches of dried green dirt and his impeccable shirt was missing a few buttons and was no longer completely white. Lorne stood up, noticing the splashes of mud that ruined the man's slacks and the trail of debris left in his wake.

"Shouldn't you have changed clothes before tracking a mess into Colonel Sheppard's office? And through the halls the whole way from the gate room?" he asked, annoyed, knowing his men would be made to clean up the mess.

Pratt methodically wiped at a streak of dirt smeared across his forehead and into his hair, then shook his fingers, allowing tiny bits of dried muck to fall to the floor. "Oh, this? This is nothing compared to how it was before they let me... before I got on the jumper. I was on PMX284," he said with a knowing smile.

The urge to laugh was overwhelming, but Lorne managed to keep a straight face. "Oh. We call that Planet Dagoba; the marsh is tricky to navigate through. I'm surprised no one told you to change into something a little more appropriate for the climate."

"I was following another one of your informative leads," Pratt continued with a mannequin grin. "I guess it slipped the minds of my escorts."

"And did you find anything interesting?" Lorne asked in fake curiosity, sitting back down.

"I learned how to fall into a three foot deep muddy pit. Very practical for the boardroom." He laughed pleasantly, as if sharing a private joke. "I went there to question the inhabitants of that swamp-covered rock because you led me to believe that Colonel Sheppard had violated the planet's customs."

"You asked about times that the colonel might have broken the rules of a sovereign government. I warned you that it can be impossible not to, but you insisted you needed a record of such transgressions. Since I wasn't part of the mission, I found the report that had been turned in somewhat suspect," Lorne carried on in a normal tone. He looked the IOA man in the eye with the right amount of confusion. "Colonel Sheppard's report was pretty vague about what happened, wasn't it?"

"Yes, it was quite vague. I followed the breadcrumbs all the way to yet another primitive society's excuse for a town. They make all their huts out of straw and animal dung. Did you know that? I didn't. But I soon learned all about the process involved in constructing their third-world excuse for shelter. Charming to say the least. " Pratt placed two dirty hands on top of the colonel's desk. "In fact, I'd say it was the fifth wild goose chase you've led me on this week."

Of course, the real story was that Colonel Sheppard's team had saved many of the natives from a deadly fever outbreak by handing out medicines that the main chief had been suspicious of. Unfortunately, push came to shove and they'd wound up taking the tribes' leader 'hostage' until they'd proved that the vaccines weren't poison and the gods weren't going to rain frogs or fire down on them. Afterwards, the chief had praised Sheppard's willingness to place himself and his team in danger, even against the leader's personal guards, while making sure his people were given the needed meds. Not that the real story mattered.

Lorne shrugged his shoulders, pretending to search for a file in the desk even though Sheppard kept everything digitally on his computer. "Sorry, I don't understand what you're insinuating."

"That's such a strong word between friends. We're friends, aren't we, Major?" Pratt gave him a plastic expression of hurt. "I've combed through piles of mission reports based on all your 'helpful' suggestions. Hours and hours interviewing men you claimed might have information regarding the investigation."

"On behavior patterns," Lorne said.

Pratt stood up, waving a hand widely. "Yes! Of reckless behavior."

Lorne furrowed his brow. "You don't think some of those incidents were reckless?"

"Come now. Climbing the outside of the tower?"

"Scaling the building, forty feet up, without equipment, and ten stories off the ground? That's pretty insane, sir." Lorne leaned back. "Most of the men say it's proof that Colonel Sheppard is crazy." _And has balls of steel, asshat_.

"Yes, let's talk about your Marines, shall we?"

"One of the best fighting forces in the world. I can talk about them all day." Lorne watched a perfectly waxed eyebrow twitch, but nothing more.

"I spent three hours listening to Sergeant Rodriguez regale me with the time Sheppard tricked an enemy army into running away after they'd attacked a village." Pratt didn't roll his eyes—he didn't have to.

"Colonel Sheppard didn't retreat, which had been the only logical strategy. Instead, he made it look like they had a stronger force by having McKay cannibalize parts from the downed jumper to create loudspeakers. That and a lap top and they put on a pretty good show. I mean," Lorne laughed for real, "they used sound effects and theater to fake out an entire army! That wasn't by the book by a long shot."

Pratt matched Lorne's genuine amusement with his own fake smile. He bent over the desk, the stench of swamp water and sweat overpowering. "Do you take me for a fool, Major?"

Lorne knew to bite his tongue, even as his carefully orchestrated façade crumbled away. "I don't understand --"

"--Enough!" Pratt slammed a hand on the desk. "Do you know the Hell I can rain down on you? I'll have you redeployed to some remote corner of Earth. Bury your evaluation and those of your men in so much red tape, they all miss the deadline for the review boards."

His control on his anger firmly in place, Lorne rose to stand from his chair. "You don't serve in any branch of the military. You have no idea what my men go through every single day. At any minute they might have to lay their life on the line to protect this city, or one of their buddies. I'd watch what you say about them." He kept his voice even and deadly, didn't raise it; there was no reason to, his unspoken message was perfectly clear. No one threatened his men.

"You know the military is the place where sheep are herded. Little puppets bowing and scraping to their masters. No need to think for yourselves, brainwashed into the collective." Pratt sneered, his handsome face ugly with disdain. "_Semper Fidelis_, huh?"

"_Always faithful_. The Marine motto. You also forget _Integrity first. Service before self. And excellence in all we do_. The United States Air Force's core values," Lorne said proudly.

Pratt's face stayed carefully controlled. "I shouldn't have expected more out of mere grunts. You're not allowed to say a single honest thing about a commanding officer. That's the problem with the pack mentality. Nothing but accolades of bravery and heroics. I had high hopes for more than idol worship, but I guess you have to cling to the bullshit in order to keep morale high. I'd guess that when what passes for leadership around here is responsible for so many screw-ups and so much loss of life, it's easier to stomach the lies than swallow the truth."

"Hey." Lorne shrugged innocently. "You told me what you were looking for and I pointed you in the right direction. Sorry if all you found were exemplary accounts of a good soldier and commanding officer. See, I was being truthful. I gave you files about missions that highlighted Colonel Sheppard's gutsier choices. Reckless, oh, hell yeah, but they were the right ones."

Lorne shook his head, stepped away from his chair and walked around to the side of the desk. "See, here in Pegasus, the rule book is a nice manual. The problem is, it's missing vital chapters on killer Replicators, space vampires, retroviruses, monsters, dinosaurs, man-eating plants, giant, life sucking bugs and rogue madmen and the thousand other scenarios we deal with day in and day out." He crossed his arms in front of his chest and allowed acid to bleed into his tone. "I'm sorry you can't recognize the leadership and teamwork around here."

Pratt balled his fingers into fists, but quickly loosened them, acting relaxed. "The days of the military covering up for one of their own are over."

"I think you see conspiracies where there are none."

"And I think you're blinded by loyalty."

"You're not going to squeeze any dirt out of anyone on this base about Colonel Sheppard because there is none. _Sir_."

Pratt allowed a reptilian smile to curl his lips with his next remarks. "Yet, he never denied responsibility in Prince Fahd's death. The good Colonel copped to disobeying orders during his disciplinary hearing in Afghanistan. He will submit to my questions and own up to all of his transgressions."

Lorne waited for the 'mark my words' jibe but Pratt just swiped another hand down his tie, knocking free more flecks of dried mud.

"I highly doubt it, sir," Lorne replied, looking for a crack in the man's placid veneer. "Sheppard's a good man and a damn fine officer. You won't break him."

Pratt offered no reply but Lorne saw the flicker of hatred in the man's cold eyes and wondered briefly what fed it. The bureaucrat left without so much as a last word and Lorne didn't know whether to be relieved or unnerved by the man's silent exit.


	16. Chapter 16 of 22

The return flight was tense. While he'd laughed off the rain coming, it had been a typical, if a blessfully smaller storm that had come up on them. Fast. They made it out ahead of the storm but the winds at its head buffeted the small craft and Rodney was white-knuckling it there for a while.

And by the looks he could catch with his darted glances at his 'co-pilot', Zelenka was just as freaked out. Teyla, of course, never uttered a peep and Rodney could only imagine how it must have been for her, seemingly re-creating her last, tragic flight.

By the time they made it back to the gate Rodney had his burned hand cramped so tightly around the yoke he felt the gauze bandages split across the knuckles.

Their arrival back was greeted by Chuck only. The gate tech explained that Colonel Carter was ensconced in her office but wanted a report when they got back. Rodney nodded his understanding but walked right out the gate room, a man on a mission.

He drew up at the outside corridor at the very unsubtle throat-clearing he heard from behind him.

Whirling about, he snapped, "What?"

Zelenka jerked his head at Teyla. The poor thing was shivering and by all appearances, barely holding it together. Her sling was damp, her hair clung to her head, and she looked like Schroedinger after a bath.

"Oh. Oh, jeez. Teyla - you - you should go see Keller."

"I am f-f-ine, Rodney." The shiver mid-sentence blew her cover completely.

With a sigh, Rodney shook his head. "Look, this city - no, this _galaxy_ is only big enough for one Sheppard. You're not fine, even Mr. Magoo could see you're a mess."

Teyla wound up for a retort, then paused. "Who is this Mr—"

"--never mind. Besides, I, um, know Radek was planning on heading there anyway. Maybe you should go with him to make sure he, um, gets there okay."

She turned concerned eyes on the obviously startled Czech. "Radek, are you all right?"

Rodney held his breath, but Zelenka came through. After a stutter and a push up of his glasses. The little physicist could be so predictable.

"Um, yes. Yes. I, uh…" He brightened, then quickly frowned and rubbed at the back of his neck. "I think I have, um, whiplash. My neck is killing me. Probably Rodney's awful landing."

Teyla linked her good arm through his and began the trek towards the infirmary. Rodney could hear her talking as they walked away.

"I'm sure Dr. Keller will be able to make it feel better. I think you just need a massage. There is a lovely young woman who works miracles with her hands…"

"Figures," Rodney humphed to himself. He tries to be a good guy and Radek gets the hot young thing to give him a massage.

* * *

Rodney reached Sheppard's quarters ten minutes later. The time had been well spent; he'd practiced how to deliver his news, or rather how to relate it and give the impression that it was news. That it was a step in the right direction.

None of the usual hulking jarheads crowded the corridor outside Sheppard's door, but he thought little of it, just assumed that Ronon was still inside from his planned visit and walk with Sheppard.

In fact, Rodney realized, his feet slowing him to a stop, they probably weren't even in Sheppard's quarters. Maybe he should try the nearest balcony. He couldn't be up to the next one yet, could he?

He was still debating outside the door when he heard a "hey" from behind him. Ronon was jogging down the corridor towards him. Alone.

"Hey, yourself. Hate to break it to you, big guy, but I think you might have forgotten something."

Ronon was looking suspiciously about but he turned at the comment. "What do you mean?"

"Your walking buddy? Glasses, limp? Spiky hair and even spikier disposition?"

His head was already shaking. "I got called to help move some equipment for one the lab geeks."

"Since when do you help lab geeks? You never help me."

Ronon rolled his eyes. "The Marines were all busy unloading a new shipment of ordnance. It was only supposed to take a few minutes but once she got me there she kept 'finding' things for me to move."

"She? Who was it?"

The big man smiled. "Lofgren."

Again, it figures, Rodney thought with a sigh. "The blonde with the… big… equipment, right. She's like six two."

"So? I'm six four," Ronon said with a sly shrug.

"Oh for—" He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "I thought your part was to keep Sheppard occupied and limping off all his pent up anger?"

"It was. I got called away. Lt Harrison was with him…" He looked around again. "And I left Marines here."

Rodney tried to quash the little flare of worry that bloomed in his stomach and waved a hand over the 'door bell' chime. When there wasn't an answer right away he exchanged a loaded look with Ronon and palmed the door open.

The room was dark. Not that that hadn't been normal of late, but it seemed dimmer than usual. Shadows filled the corners and the bedside lamp was off. The bed was rumpled but unoccupied and Rodney swallowed, flashing on entering Sheppard's quarters when he'd started to go buggy…

"Sheppard?" he barely squeaked out, unsure why he was suddenly so cold. It was like entering a freaking haunted house.

Ronon shoved past him and entered the room, Rodney close on his heels.

Once his eyes adjusted to the murk he saw Sheppard sitting in a chair in the corner. No hand was raised in greeting but the man's eyes were clearly open behind the thick glass lenses.

"What the hell," Sheppard, Rodney said with a relieved exhale. "Why didn't you answer the door? And why does it feel like Dracula's crypt in here?"

"I like it dark, Rodney," Sheppard replied coolly, completely ignoring the first question. "What do you want?"

Ronon folded his arms and leaned against the wall, affecting boredom but his gaze was penetrating. And fixed on Sheppard.

"I, uh… well, I, uh, thought you'd be walking," Rodney stuttered out, all his well rehearsed lines completely out the window.

"So did I."

Ronon nodded at the slight, taking the hit. "Sorry about that, Sheppard. Didn't mean to get caught for so long. It's only been about an hour. You still wanna try for at least the first balcony?"

"No problem, Ronon," Sheppard said with a dismissive wave of his hand. The words were friendly but the voice said otherwise. "I know how things get."

Rodney walked over and went to sit down on the bed, then hesitated. He picked nervously at his frayed bandage, wondering when Sheppard had been replaced by Hannibal Lecter.

"So… how's it going?" Rodney's supersized brain was completely failing him. He was inept with most interpersonal relationships anyway- it had said so on enough of his employment and psych reviews.

"It's going great, Rodney," Sheppard replied dryly. It was weird, hearing the voice issuing from the darkened corner, so calm and inscrutable. And so unlike the Sheppard he knew.

"Good, good," Rodney replied lamely, just to keep the really uncomfortable conversation going. "So… we uh, that is to say, Radek and Teyla and I went down to the planet and—"

"--Teyla? You brought Teyla?" Sheppard leaned forward enough for the dim light that filtered through the drapes to reflect his pale features.

Rodney gulped. "Yes. She- she volunteered. And all she did was talk."

"Talk to whom, Rodney?"

"To, um, Mina. Yes, Mina - lovely woman, completely non-threatening."

"Why would you take pregnant, injured Teyla back to that planet, McKay? What could have possessed you?"

Possession. Yes, maybe that's what it was. Sheppard had clearly been taken over by demons. Next his head would spin and pea soup would come fountaining out of his mouth. Then would come the disgusting comments about his mother…

"We were investigating."

"Investigating what, exactly? What could that place have of interest to you that _you_ and _Zelenka _would haul Teyla back down there? You could have at least brought Ronon with you - oh, that's right. He was busy _moving _things."

Rodney's mouth worked silently as he fumbled to come up with a response to what was clearly an insult - what did he mean, about him and Zelenka? And why would they need Ronon, when he was perfectly capable …

"They were trying to find out what the hell happened, Sheppard," Ronon broke in.

"We already know what happened," Ronon, he spat back. "The jumper crashed. I crashed the jumper. What the hell business does anyone have poking their noses into it any more? Least of all two geeks-–"

"--Excuse me?" Rodney broke in. As per his usual, when his interpersonal skills failed him his mouth and brain kicked in with sarcasm and derision. "Who else would have been better qualified?"

"To investigate a jumper crash, Rodney? Let's see… well, someone who could at least fly a jumper in a straight line for starters."

"I fly just fine, thank you. And is it just me," he said airily, "or am I dreaming?" He made a dramatic show of pinching his arm hard. Too hard. He winced and quickly rubbed at the sore spot. "We did get rid of that crystal entity, right, Ronon? Because I'd swear we have the Freddie Krueger Sheppard back. This is a dream, right? Does anyone see any whales?"

"Knock it off, McKay," Sheppard growled. "It's really not funny. And answer the question. What the hell are you _investigating_?"

"The. Crash."

"Why?"

"Why? Why? Don't you want to know what happened? I mean, _why _it happened? _How_ it happened? Oh ho, you may have your flaws, Sheppard, God knows we're seeing some now, but you're a good pilot. A great pilot. And I hate to think of them –"

"--them? Them who, McKay?" Sheppard leaned further forward, pain clear in the deep lines in his face and the way he held his gut tightly.

"Pratt," Ronon grunted. "He's got you in his sights, Sheppard. Wants to blame the crash on you."

"Pratt? Is that what all this is about? Is that why you have _my _Marines guarding me?"

Rodney winced and saw Ronon flinch as well.

"We were just trying to… we were looking out for you. You know. Taking your six and all that military crap."

"I don't need looking out for," Sheppard said coldly. His appearance was putting a lie to his words; the man looked on the verge of passing out.

"Yes, because you're doing _such _a bang up job of dealing with all this," Rodney snorted. "Sorry if we didn't care to see you doing the St Vitus jig again if Pratt got his claws in you."

Sheppard rose slowly from his chair, one hand supporting him, shakily, as he leaned on the chair arm.

"Get out."

Ronon pushed away from the wall and took two steps closer to the clearly unsteady man. "Take it easy, Sheppard. You know McKay never knows when to keep his mouth shut."

Rodney was so appalled at his own words he remained literally dumbfounded.

"Leave me alone, Ronon," Sheppard said, his eyes still pinned on Rodney. "I told the Marines they were dismissed. And I'd better not see them haunting my door again, is that understood?"

"Yeah," Ronon answered quietly. "You should sit down, Sheppard," he added calmly.

"Stop—" Sheppard grimaced and held his breath.

Rodney felt his own breathing stop, along with his heart most likely, and didn't exhale until he saw Sheppard finally do the same.

"Stop treating me like a child."

"If the pram fits," Rodney bit out, his anger flaring back to life. "Yes, we all know you're Lt Colonel Indestructible, able to climb high towers and kill seven Wraith with one blow. Doesn't mean you're not about to face plant right here in front of us."

Sheppard said not a word, his facial expression morphing from anger, pain, anguish, doubt and back to anger again, like a movie on fast forward. Then he did sit down, sinking back into the shadows.

"I'm saying this only one more time. Both of you, get out."

"But Pratt—"

"--I don't care, Rodney. I'm tired of hiding - or should I say, of being hidden. That's what this was all about, right? Getting me out of the infirmary? The constant visits. Ronon playing _checkers_? I don't need babysitting. If Pratt wants in, let him in."

"I'm pleased to hear you're amenable to a chat, Colonel," Pratt replied from the doorway. "We have _so_ much to discuss."

* * *

The door had barely closed silently behind them and Ronon was already five feet ahead and putting even more corridor between them.

"Ronon!"

"What?" was barked without a hesitation in his stride so Rodney was forced to speak at the stiff back and bouncing dreads.

"Where are you going?"

"To hit something."

"Oh, now that's productive," Rodney huffed, out of breath from trying to keep up with the former Runner.

Ronon didn't even slow to glare balefully at him. "It can be," he growled.

Rodney paled under the threat that if it wasn't being implied, he was certainly inferring.

"Why? Where are you going?" Ronon countered before Rodney had even made his rejoinder.

Where was he going? Helluva good question. He knew where he would have gone, not so long ago… and maybe it was still the same place.

"To go yell at someone."

"Oh, yeah? Who?" Ronon asked, clearly not really interested as he maintained his Hell-bent for hitting something course.

"Keller."

That made the Satedan slow to a stop and Rodney almost barreled into the back of him.

"Why?" Ronon asked, bending his head until his face was even with Rodney's.

"Easy there, Lennie," Rodney said with a fearless pat on the bigger man's shoulder. "I'm not going to hurt the pretty lady. I just want some answers."

"Thought you said you were going to yell at her."

"Well, yes. That's my preferred form of communication," Rodney replied without backing up. "Would it make you feel better if I said I was going to speak sternly with her?"

"Keller's got nothing to do with what's going on with Sheppard. Whatever the hell it is," Ronon added as he pulled back from his threatening looming.

"Exactly," Rodney said with a sharp nod. "Whatever it is. That's my point," he added unnecessarily, as if convincing himself. "She's the expert. She should know."

Ronon shook his head angrily. "She's just going to feed you post-traumatic bullshit, McKay. She won't have any miracle answers for you."

"Be that as it may," Rodney said without conviction. "It will be more productive than 'hitting things'," he added with a pointed look. "Besides, Sheppard's going to need the help when that asshole's done with him. He was hanging by his fingernails as it was when we left."

The big man just nodded, then wheeled about and left without another world.

Rodney sighed and made his way to the infirmary.

* * *

He'd had a chance to work himself into a real lather by the time he got to the infirmary. His fevered brain had come up with multiple reasons why it was all Keller's fault. She never should have let Sheppard out of the infirmary. The man was clearly still in need of kid glove handling, something which Rodney had _never_ been able to do. With anyone, not even family for Pete's sake. Then he jumped to Sam. Sam and her 'brilliant' ideas, Sam and her 'I know everything there is to know about the SGC' twaddle. But now Ronon - he was the one who practically throttled- well, not practically -- _literally_ throttled Pratt. Like poking a hornets' nest with a big stick, stirring up all the bad stuff, making Pratt even more unpleasant and taking it out on Sheppard. Teyla… well, Teyla didn't really do anything wrong, but she was the one who introduced them to the people on that stupid planet in the first place…

He'd moved on to stupid Chuck letting stupid Pratt through the stupid gate in the first place as the doors to the infirmary breezed open.

Charging past startled staff, so high was his dudgeon, he rounded the corner, words already spilling from his lips before he'd even made it to the office. "And another thing-- "

He stopped so quickly that it took a second for his feet to catch up with his brain and he almost face planted himself in the middle of Keller's office. Where she and Sam Carter both sat, currently staring at him with concern.

"Rodney? What's wrong?" Keller had risen halfway from her seat before Rodney could wave her back down and reorganize his thoughts.

"Nothing, nothing," he stammered.

"Well. you came blowing in here like Hurricane McKay; it sure seems like something's up," Sam said with a smirk.

"Well, there is –it's just - I mean, I was here to -- why are you here?" he finally asked in exasperation.

"None of your beeswax, McKay," Sam said with a slightly embarrassed look.

Rodney put two and two together, more slowly than his genius brain should've taken, and saw a woman, talking privately with another woman- a doctor- in her private office. His cheeks flushed bright red and he began to back pedal towards the door. "You know, you really should have a door, I mean, how else is someone supposed to know—"

"Rodney," Sam laughed, sharing an eye roll with Keller, "relax. We were just talking about Colonel Sheppard. But you should know better than to barge into people's space without asking."

"Oh, ha ha. Very funny. If it'll make you feel any better you can barge into my office unannounced any time, Sam," he said with an airy smile, falling back onto his patented attempts at flirting with her.

"And risk finding you in your boxers cleaning coffee out of your pants?"

"Just because that happened once—"

"Rodney," Keller broke in. "Why are you here?" she asked again with raised eyebrows.

"Sheppard."

"What about the colonel?"

"What about-- ? What about the fact that he's sitting in the dark like … like… like Renfield. I was half expecting him to snatch up a spider and eat it."

Keller only half laughed; her curiosity and concern was piqued. "Renfield? What is that supposed to mean, Rodney?"

"His room- his crypt- I found him sitting in there, brooding, and possibly plotting my death and several others. He's completely off his nut."

"Rodney, I told you he'd be—"

"Ornery. I distinctly remember you used the term 'ornery'. He's so far beyond ornery- he's well into homicidal. And maybe –"

He couldn't say it. Maybe the man had gone on missions he never planned to come back from, but he wasn't -- he couldn't be --

Keller exchanged a loaded look with Sam and sighed. "I had hoped that his mood would have improved beyond what it has. Physically, his recovery has been slow, I'll grant you, but certainly no slower than I expected. I'm sure it's slower than Colonel Sheppard expected."

"I thought he was doing better," Rodney said, his shoulders slumping. "Ronon's been bringing him on forced marches every day."

"It's been what, a few days out of the infirmary, Rodney?" Sam spoke up. "And you'll remember the only reason he's out–"

"Yes, Pratt. The other reason I'm here. Sheppard got rid of his guard dogs and the slimy bastard slunk right in."

"He's in there now?" Sam asked, sitting forward in her seat.

"Yes, did I not just say that? Why the hell Sheppard left himself open like that - I mean, doesn't the man have a single shred of self-preservation?"

"I'm afraid that's my fault," Keller said quietly. "I didn't bring Lt. Harrison in all the way on our little plan. She had no idea the colonel didn't know about the guarding - or that he'd be angry about it. She mentioned the Marines to him… I take it from what she reported back that he was less than pleased."

"You think?" Rodney said bitterly.

"Rodney, you'll recall we all agreed this was what we needed to do," Sam interjected.

He had no response to that. They had, He had. But it was all going so horribly _wrong_.

Keller's voice broke through his dark musings. "Rodney? What exactly was going on? I mean, how would you really characterize the colonel's emotional and physical well-being when you left? And please, save the pop culture references."

He ran a hand though his hair before answering. "Well, first off, I wouldn't use the term 'well-being'. For either of them. He was surly, glowering, churlish. Give me a Roget's and I'll come up with a whole string of adjectives to describe him. He was hostile, argumentative. Even verbally bitch-slapped Ronon. He looked perfectly miserable, frankly. About as down as I've ever seen someone not in one of those stupid emo band videos. I didn't notice any guyliner, at least."

Keller sighed again and nodded her understanding.

But Rodney didn't understand. Not at all.

"So, is this post-traumatic whatever it is?" he huffed.

"It's not _post_ anything, Rodney," Keller replied with a quick head shake. "It's _during_ traumatic stress. In case it needs to be said again, Colonel Sheppard is only out of the infirmary because of these rather… unique circumstances. He should still be here. Recuperating under the supervision of a trained medical staff. We've done the best we could, arranged for a tight schedule of visitation…"

"No one's blaming you, Jennifer," Sam said firmly and with a baleful eye on Rodney. "You and your staff have handled things quite admirably, considering."

Keller's mouth tightened as if to protest. Then she sat straighter and addressed Rodney. "What about his physical state, Rodney?"

"Not. Good," he bit out in reply. "And while Pratt doesn't seem to be the type to use rubber hoses and car batteries in his interrogations, I doubt very much they're sharing a beer and a laugh right now."

Keller rose from her seat before the last words had left his mouth. She faked a glance at her wristwatch and cocked her head. "Well, lookie that. It's time for Colonel Sheppard's next med check. Colonel… Rodney," she nodded at them each before breezing out of the room.

Rodney looked over to see Sam fighting a smile. "She's learning…"

"She kinda reminded me of Carson there," Rodney said with a wistful smile of his own.

"Maybe Dr. Beckett saw that in her."

"Hm. Well - let's hope she's as good at picking up the pieces of broken colonel as he was. I doubt that Pratt will be concerned with Sheppard's health as he steamrolls over him."

"About that, Rodney," Sam said as she sat back and gestured at Keller's now empty chair.

He hesitated, then sat down, but rigidly on the very edge of the seat. Nervous energy had his knee bouncing as he waited for Sam to continue and he picked at his bandaged hand.

"Did Pratt say why he was there?"

"No, I didn't think to ask him as I was being banished from Sheppard's room. Claims he wanted to 'chat', but I highly doubt that's what he had in mind. More like the third degree, I'd imagine."

"Yeah, and I can't figure out why," Sam said with a scowl. "Rodney, Pratt came to me about an hour ago. Lorne had already filled me in on a conversation they'd had. I'd hoped the major was wrong but he wasn't."

"What did Lorne say?"

"The major was being… groomed. By Pratt."

"Groomed for what?"

"To take over for John."

"And Lorne…?"

"Played along. He quite rightly figured he'd get more information if he stayed in Pratt's good graces. But Pratt finally got wise to it. Told Lorne he had pretty much finished his report, and he was prepared to file it with his superiors."

"You mean before he'd even spoken with Sheppard?"

"Yes," she said firmly. "Rodney, I don't think Pratt ever had any intention of completing a real investigation. He came here with his mind already made up and John's fate decided. All the questioning and poking around? Window dressing. He'd have to at least try for the appearance of conducting a real inquiry."

"And this 'fate' that he's decided?" Rodney asked angrily.

She sighed and shook her head. "That his actions were negligent. And not just those surrounding the crash. He's got it in his head that just about everything that's ever gone wrong around here is John's fault." She paused as if reluctant to continue.

"And?" Rodney prodded.

"And, he told me he's planning on recommending that John be removed as military commander here. And possibly brought up on charges."

"Charges?" Rodney spluttered. "For what?"

"If he could get away with it, I think Pratt would be fitting John up for being the lone gunman on the grassy knoll."

"Oswald was in the book depository," Rodney muttered. "Someone else was…"

"You get my drift, Rodney," Sam broke in. "From waking the Wraith through the galaxy wide genocide the Replicators were responsible for, Pratt holds John responsible for all of it."

"That's ridiculous! The Wraith have been culling for millennia and would have continued to do so but for the Replicators kicking their collective asses. And the change in the programming was me- _I_ changed the code—"

"At John's direction."

"Well, technically, I guess, yes, but it was my idea!"

"And only executed at John's discretion. I'm not disagreeing with you, Rodney! I'm telling you that if there is a way to twist a situation to throw the worst possible light on things, Pratt has found a way to do it. He's well-respected, persuasive and I think he's a real threat that we need to deal with."

Rodney slumped in his chair. "I should have let Ronon kill him."

Sam smiled sadly. "I'm glad you didn't. When I think of the paperwork…"

"Ha ha," he replied morosely. "So, what do we do? I've never grasped the whole political machinations thing. It's why I like my lab. No politics. Just pure despotism, plain and simple."

"I don't know, Rodney," Sam answered him with disturbing honesty. "But I do know that in the meantime, while we think of the answer? We need to make sure that report doesn't make it back to the IOA."

Rodney rose from his seat, snapping his fingers almost as quickly as ideas formed in his head before smiling grimly. "Hm, now _that_ is something I can do something about."


	17. Chapter 17

John watched Rodney and Ronon exit his room, stealing glances over their shoulders before the door closed on their hunched retreating backs. The testosterone still hung heavy in the air from the staring contest, reminding him of pit bulls ready to rip each other's throats out. Richard Pratt entered with all the mannerisms of an alpha dog sniffing around for weaknesses.

"Small but efficient. It could use a little more light, unless you're going for a prison cell feel." Pratt searched for the controls. "Here we go," he said, waving his hand over the panel to increase the illumination.

John dimmed things back down with a thought. "I didn't say you could turn them up."

The bureaucrat chuckled. "The wonders of the Ancient gene," he said, stuffing his hands into the pockets of high-end slacks. "That's why you were brought along originally, right? You were a thoroughbred among the mutts?"

"They needed someone to turn on all the coffee machines; scientists get crabby when they don't get their caffeine fix."

"Rising from a glorified armed handyman to one of the head honchos. For a guy who wasn't even on the bottom of the list for the Atlantis assignment, you rose to the head of the class pretty quickly. But then, according to your records, that's your M.O."

"And what would that be?"

"Be just enough above average to get your choice of duties but don't shine too brightly. Typical underachiever."

John got a clearer look at the supposed bogeyman. The last time had been too fuzzy from his poor vision and then of course there was his pathetic performance afterwards.

No matter what McKay and Ronon thought, he could fight his own battles. He'd never backed down from any disciplinary action, not even allowing his father to use his influence during the hearing after Afghanistan. "People tend to underestimate the underdog."

"May I?" Pratt gestured at his desk, moving away model planes and useless books to place his recorder. "The underdog doesn't have to live up to anything, does he? If there's no high bar, then there's no letdown."

It could have been the tone or the familiar delivery of the insult that raised John's hackles. He took the moment that Pratt used screwing with his stuff to rally his reserves, shifting enough to keep pressure away from his ribs and incision area. His hip throbbed from sitting for over an hour stewing, but he focused on breathing through the pain and wiped away the sweat on his brow.

He noticed the polo player emblem and familiar fine stitching of Pratt's expensive suit. Dad had loved custom tailored threads for days spent at the yacht club or the boardroom. Dave had adopted the old man's style, constantly hassling John about the expectations of dressing properly and dragging him to fittings that he'd leave in the middle of. He hated the egotism associated with designer clothes, trading in the world of Ralph Lauren for military fatigues.

Patrick Sheppard's last words to him before he headed to ROTC were that his son was a disappointment.

Pratt finished setting up and noticed John's intense scrutiny. "I heard those coke bottles help you see better," he said, waving a hand in front of John's glasses.

"Yep, so I can do things like admire your suit."

Pratt ignored the sarcasm. "I fly twice a year to the Ralph Lauren Beverly Hills location to get my measurements taken. Louis Pierre has an eye for flare." He adjusted his collar. "Just ruined one earlier on a planet. Looks like my first stop when I get home will be Rodeo Drive."

John's head whipped up so fast it nearly snapped his neck. "You went off world?" He angrily adjusted the glasses that had gone crooked over the bridge of his nose.

"Why, Colonel, I've been investigating some of your recent adventures. Your men really do love you. Must be a big change from Earth. To go from a lone helicopter taxi driver to beloved commander of Atlantis."

John could feel the muscles in his shoulders tightening and the way his body unconsciously leaned forward despite the pain.

"You're a tough guy to talk with when you're stashed away. I'm sure the bravest Marines were used to guard your door. Wonder how many jumped at the chance for such hazardous duty?" Pratt looked around and brought over the chair that was by his bed. "Mind if I sit down?"

John's finger dug into the arm of the chair. "Yes. I _do._"

Pratt ignored him, taking a seat. "Think any of your buddies at Bagram Air Base would have done the same? Actually, come to think of it, how many testified on your behalf during your Article Fifteen hearing?"

He was going to chew a hole in his bottom lip. John hadn't needed anyone to stand up for his actions back then and wouldn't tolerate it now. "None. I accepted the consequences for what I did; no one else can do that."

"No, they can't. But you've never actually faced any true fallout from your decisions before. You became a disgraced special operations pilot, but you kept your wings and rank. All those commendations in your jacket saved you, even though you had more than one reprimand."

"I don't need to be told this. I was _there_." John used both hands to lift his body up an inch to reposition painfully in the chair. "What does this have to do with the crash?" he asked from between gritted teeth.

"I'm getting to that," Pratt smiled. "I'd say your whole past is one long road towards this disaster and many others. Starting with your choice to join the Air Force to begin with." Pratt stood up, walking past him and appraising his room. "You can tell a lot about a person by his few possessions." He toed the skateboard out of harm's way in the corner. "I wonder how many marble floors you destroyed with this as a kid. Personal belongings are extremely limited and you have a toy. So becoming of an officer," Pratt tsked with a shake of his head.

The IOA man scanned the walls. "Johnny Cash over your bed. I was more of a Sinatra guy myself." Methodically he poked at the things on John's end table, holding up a picture frame. "Evel Knievel, interesting choice. Always pushing the envelope, seeking greater risks."

With one white knuckled grip on his desk, John pushed himself to his feet, locking his knees. "Put. That. Down." He was dressed only in sweats and a T-shirt and his legs ready to give out, but the venom in his voice must have been intimidating enough. Lord knew it took every ounce of energy to act imposing when he was literally shaking on his pins.

Pratt put the precious picture down hurriedly, quickly concealing his startled reaction. "As I was saying… Your underachieving began in the military. Easier to stand out there than among the corporate moguls. Fly fast and still get to apply all that Ivy League education."

"Stanford's not Ivy League, asshole," John muttered as he eased back in his chair, collapsing at the last second and jarring his injuries. God, that hurt; his eyes watered but he blinked the moisture away and kept a straight face.

Pratt stood there in the middle of his quarters, knowing he had a captive audience. "It started when you got shot down. Balkans, right? Got that first taste. Evading the enemy for three days and finding your way back. Very impressive." His face was completely sincere. "You were 'the man'. No longer flying normal reconnaissance missions. Got to play with all those million dollar spy planes and fly everywhere. Korea. China. Middle East." He whistled. "Pure adrenaline. I always wanted to be in one of those things; what kid didn't?"

"They run out of _Maxim_ issues on Midway? Must have been real bored to read my service record. Then again who hasn't?" John quipped between steadying breaths.

Pratt sighed. "You really are too hard on yourself, Colonel. Being shot down wasn't impressive enough. I mean, you've flown in million dollar planes before? Private, of course, but we know it's not the same. It didn't fulfill your need. Not until you saw some real warfare. You volunteered for more on the ground training. Why? Pilots don't see that much action. But in Afghanistan, flying helicopters? That was right in the danger zone."

John got it. Knew this game and it was bullshit. He was a thrill seeker but not like that. Being competitive was second nature and doing whatever it took to fly was his life. "Choppers can go where jets can't. They provide ground support, get where men need it most."

"Exactly. Better than sixteen hours in a plane, jamming radar or taking pictures. You get to swoop in and _do_ something," Pratt said casually. "You racked up the medals early in your tour. How many Distinguished Flying Crosses?"

"I didn't give a fuck about that." John felt the heat rise in his cheeks, the fire in his eyes. "I did what I could to save lives."

Pratt stepped closer, his tone velvety smooth despite the insinuation in every breath. "And you did. But that wasn't enough. Next came search and rescue operations. Medical evacuations in hostile territory. Risking more. Saving more. Proving that you were someone important."

He could feel his temper slipping, all his pain medication wearing away, the amber bottle out of reach. "I don't sit back and study statistical outcome scenarios while good people die," John hissed.

"No, you don't. That's when you started butting heads with your superiors and the reprimands began. Then one day you disobeyed a direct order because John Sheppard was right and 'they' were wrong. After all, you knew better; you were there. All the brass cared about was paperwork."

Pratt's tone was soft and sympathetic but John knew it was all patronizing. He must have zoned out for a moment, lost in memories and guilt because when he looked up, the bureaucrat had taken the chair again, inched it closer so he was invading his personal space.

"You got away with it. Sent to Antarctica with a slap on the wrist, but the past taught you well. When you arrived here, there were no strings, no committees. You did what you thought was best for the city. You were in charge and people depended on you. Lives were at stake every day. You even made friends."

Pratt rested a hand on the right arm of John's chair, encouraging expression all thin plastic. "This was a fresh start, a new beginning. The first thing you did was go on a rescue mission to save your commanding officer, a man whose respect you so wanted to win. Play the hero. And you ended up killing him and waking the Wraith."

John squared his shoulders and sat up as straight as he could, his muscles screaming. "Get the hell out of my face."

"Dr. Weir. A civilian," Pratt continued softly, ignoring John's bluster. "Knew your so-called rescue mission was rash. Reckless."

"We were alone. No help. No support." John could see the gray hairs in the man's stubble they were that close. "It was the right thing to do. I can't change what was done. Now, you really should move," he drawled.

It took something deep inside to hold it together. Pratt backed off and John exhaled, realizing he'd been holding his breath.

"You can regret, Colonel. But it's the rest of the galaxy that has paid for your mistakes."

The verbal blow hit John right in the gut.

"I won't rattle off statistics in regards to body count since I know all that red tape bores you. I'm sure every smoldering town or city that you've visited after a culling, the faces of the dead follow you in your sleep." Pratt was no longer smiling, simply speaking with no inflection.

A voice in John's head reminded him that the Wraith were a threat before they'd ever stepped foot here, but it sounded like Elizabeth's and that hurt even more.

"That's not the only time you overstepped your authority, Colonel. You disobeyed Dr. Weir at least one documented time that we know of." The bureaucrat rested a hand on his leg, leaning forward carefully. "All the grunts love you for fighting on the front lines, leading the charge. But it's because you're a control freak."

"I won't ask my men to do anything that I'm not willing to do."

"It's never about sharing the risk; it's about doing it yourself. "

"That's my job."

"No, it's not. You're supposed to assess risk and implement the safest plans." Pratt pulled a PDA out of his pocket, fiddling with the screen. "Do you know how many of your choices have had far-reaching ramifications?"

"Everything we do here has an effect. That's why an expedition came to Atlantis. To learn from those who were smarter then us, right?" John snapped. "We've become a power base in Pegasus and we should do what we can to help the people out here."

"The Atlantis expedition was approved so we could make discoveries from the Ancients and use it to help Earth, Colonel. That's why millions upon millions have been spent and now even more money has been dumped into the program to protect out planet from the threats this galaxy poses. Threats made stronger by your bad choices."

"We have an obligation to--"

"--To defeat the Wraith? Are you going to come up with another biological weapon that'll backfire? Maybe Super Wraith are not enough. The whole retrovirus warfare project did have your approval."

Pratt was wining the verbal throwdown, every blow striking John hard. The guy spoke of all of his failures and mistakes as if discussing the shortcomings of a business plan. The paper pusher sat composed while John struggled against boiling emotions. He could feel the straining cords in his neck, the grinding of his teeth.

He was up against the ropes, swaying on his feet, waiting for the knock out. All energy was channeled towards staying upright in his seat, the back of his t-shirt plastered with cold sweat.

The bureaucrat eyed him like a predator going for the kill. "There was also the Replicator menace. The analyses of those decisions are extensive. Changing their code at the last minute... I can't tell on whose shoulders the blame rests there. Dr Weir was present, but compromised. Dr. McKay came up with the idea. I'm leaning more towards him and his ego."

"The choice was mine," John blurted. Taking the group decision and placing it squarely on himself. There was no way he'd allowed this asshole to ruin Rodney's reputation. "I'm the one who made it an order to change the code. Having the Wraith and the Replicators battle each other would give us a strategic advantage."

"Instead of leaving things alone, you made another reckless choice without considering the circumstances."

Pratt's statement was a knife in John's side. Another decision gone horrible wrong.

"That mission was a complete train wreck. Not only did it cause the Replicators to kill thousands in order to rid the Wraith of their food supply, you lost Dr. Weir in the process, your greatest ally."

"Don't you dare bring Elizabeth into this!" John snarled, wrapping his arm around his middle. The room spun around and he had to catch his breath.

"Do you need a minute, Colonel?" Pratt's voice asked off in the distance.

He squeezed his eyes closed to ward away the growing band of pressure around his temples and swallowed. He was leaning heavily on the left side of the armrest and it took everything he had to pull himself together. "Just leave her... out of this," he seethed.

Pratt eyed him, probably to make sure he wasn't about to pass out. And isn't that what was expected of poor, weak John? He wouldn't be surprised if the whole city waited to swoop in and pick up the pieces after he fell apart.

"Colonel Sheppard, you arrived in this place and from day one it's been nothing but chaos. You were a last minute addition because of your gene, nothing else. Leadership fell in your lap and your early miscalculations resulted in blood all over your hands. Blood you want wiped clean."

John shook his head no, but he wasn't looking into Pratt's eyes anymore.

"You rose from nowhere, taking charge, beating everyone's expectations. A Major rallying a city around him in a storybook battle against an unbeatable enemy. A white knight in the darkness."

There arguments were nothing new, John had heard them before but never like this. Never in such a cold calculated manner. Pratt didn't miss a beat. "You never joined Mensa because it'd show your math aptitude. Think of the surprise of all the geeks around here over your smarts. I mean, you're just a soldier. This way, you're the one everyone can turn to. And when the guilt piles on, you can run one of your suicide missions and come out the shining hero, regardless of the outcome."

"Screw you," John managed.

"You've always had a weak family support system despite the privilege of growing up a Sheppard. Highly intelligent, reclusive even though you joined a team oriented structure in the Air Force. Craving recognition but never being seen seeking it out. I bet that's the family again, right? Impulsive with disregard to your own safety. Inherent desire to help others manifesting in altruistic behavior," Pratt's voice droned.

This wasn't possible. "You've read my psych evaluation?" John asked, outraged.

Pratt's face twitched, a clear signal of guilt.

"You son of a bitch! That's...that's illegal!" John shouted even as it amplified the pain in his head.

"What should be illegal is allowing someone like you to hold a position of power. You've demonstrated reckless disregard in your decision making with disastrous consequences. A pattern of behavior that started when your military career began."

"No…"

The bureaucrat rose from his chair, ready to cast his judgment. "Colonel Sheppard, you didn't want to go on milk runs with Prince Fahd. You'd bowed and scraped to another pointless paper pusher for an entire week. You were told to babysit an insufferable man while your friend Dr. McKay needed you for those jumper modifications. While you played chauffeur to the very type of man you despised during your tour of duty in Afghanistan, a very important experiment waited on you. You and your valuable gene and gift for flying."

Pratt stood next to his chair and looked down on him. "Who knew when you'd need this jumper to save an injured teammate? And all you could do was wait. You needed to step in, be the man again. Colonel Sheppard the CO that does anything for his people. Trying to wash away mistakes with every valiant action."

He felt like a dog, being kicked while down. John sat there silent, taking his punishment.

"After hours of putting up with Prince Fahd's rude behavior at the dinner party you wanted to go, but duty dictated you stay. Then he insulted a member of your team that you'd do anything for and that was the final straw."

Was that how it happened? John wondered. Had he been so caught up in the excitement over the modifications that he put people in danger? Did he let his temper with Fahd cloud his judgment?

"Even though a strong ally warned you of the storm, you flew in it anyways. Since when did a hotshot pilot like yourself worry about the weather? Would you actually waste time spending the night on a mission you never wanted when more important things waited for you at home?"

It couldn't be. "I… don't know," John found himself saying, curling as much as he could in the chair.

Pratt leaned over, this time with no hesitation. "You did. You flew the jumper in a dangerous storm because once again, you knew what was best. You had your priorities. You had to prove yourself. That's what you do, Sheppard. Every choice, each reckless decision is to prove your worthiness. Prove to _Dad_ that you became someone."

John was at a loss for words, unable to come up with a retort. He deserved this.

"A man died because of your blatant disregard for his safety and that of Ms. Emmagan." Pratt stood straight and took a deep breath, looking smug. "That is what my report is going to conclude and my recommendation is that you be relieved of your duties until a more formal set of charges can be brought against you. This time I don't think you'll be able to dodge a court mar--"

"--Colonel Sheppard."

Jennifer Keller entered his quarters, coming to a stop next to Pratt and slinging a small medical bag to the floor. "I activated the door chime and waited, Colonel," she said to him, eyes scanning him critically before turning to the IOA man. "I didn't know you had company. Mr. Pratt," she greeted, her voice turning icy. "I was curious what could be going on in here that prevented you from hearing and answering the door for the Colonel?"

John wasn't about to call Keller on her obvious lie; undoubtedly McKay had tattled to the first person he came across that the Big Bad Wolf was blowing down his door.

"Colonel Sheppard and I were having a little discussion about his future," Pratt explained, collecting his equipment and fiddling with it. "Would you look at that?" he half-heartedly exclaimed. "The damn thing didn't record." He slipped the device into a breast pocket. "Good thing my report is complete."

There wasn't a drop of energy left in John's fuel tank to give a proper glare; his eyes burned a hole in the floor by his feet. All he wanted was to be left alone; they both needed to be on their way. Keller was pulling a Rodney, practically humming in her restlessness, shuffling her feet in impatience.

"Good day, Dr. Keller, it's been a pleasure," Pratt said in his trademark unflappable tone. "I'm sure I'll be seeing you at Stargate Command when you're feeling better, Colonel."

The doors swooshing closed signaled the man's exit; John didn't even bother looking up. "You can go, too," he told Keller.

He slid a pointer finger across the bridge of his nose, pushing up the heavy glasses that followed the will of gravity. Giving them a couple more shoves to no avail, John lifted his head to watch the doctor pull out a BP cuff and wrap a stethoscope around her neck.

"I don't need an examination," he tried to growl but ended in a rough rasp.

"It's time for your vitals check, Colonel," Keller said, ignoring his protest. She crouched in front of him. "Can you sit up at all?"

Between her doe eyes of sympathy and sugarcoated 'can you even sit', _you poor crippled man _tone, John had about enough.

He bolted out of his chair, scaring the crap out of Keller who gasped and grabbed a hold of his shoulders. Call it a hidden shot of adrenaline or pure stubborn determination, he was on his feet and brushing those annoyingly helpful hands out of his way.

"You did your duty and checked up on me," John spit out. She unintentionally blocked his direct path and he turned the other direction and hobbled. "Go tell my daycare workers that you tucked me in."

"Colonel, please."

John had enough juice to make it to his bed, except his desk jumped out in front of him and he ran into the corner, banging his hip. "Damn it!" he cursed, grabbing it for support.

"Easy," Keller soothed, holding him up by his armpits.

Pain ricocheted down his leg and up his side, causing him to lean over the desk. "Didn't... didn't see it." He took in a deep breath and pushed away. "I'm good," he huffed.

"Your depth perception is off, it's fine," Keller followed like a mother hen. "Why don't you let me--"

"--I can walk... two feet." He proved his point by limping back to bed, sagging on the mattress, where his body gave up and stalled out. "Come on," John groaned. There was no way he could drag himself the rest of the way up in his current state.

Keller silently supported him while he climbed in, swinging the dead weights of his legs over. John squeezed his eyes tightly, choo-chooing for air and waiting for the fire down his middle to extinguish. He felt the blood pressure cuff constrict his bicep and fingers at the pulse point of his wrist.

He willed her to leave him alone to lick his wounds in private. She would have none of it, pulling his T-shirt up, and examining him. At least she did it without platitudes or nauseating words of comfort. He honestly thought he'd lose it if she did.

"I'm giving you an injection of pain medication; it's faster than a pill," Keller explained, grabbing stuff out of her bag.

John wouldn't argue her point. No need to wait half an hour for the medicine to kick in. She returned, quietly dabbing an alcohol wipe and injecting a needle of relief into his arm. The shadow of Keller remained, but he ignored it, waiting for her to get the message.

"Colonel."

He kept his eyes closed.

"John," she said softer.

There was an audible sigh, the rustling of a bag and scraping of feet on the floor. "You should rest. Lt. Harrison or I will check in on you later. Your BP and pulse were a little high but I'm going to blame that on a stressful situation. One that I won't tolerate a repeat performance of," she said, her last words angry.

Keller waited a beat, the doors closed and she was gone. John exhaled loudly, hand scrubbing over his face. Thank goodness Keller didn't actually tuck him in.

He grabbed the covers, tugging a few times until they were up most of the way. He removed his glasses and laid them on his chest, too wrung out to toss them on the end table.

He lay there, listening to the city, imagining the waves lapping at the city below. The narcotic felt warm in his veins but it could do nothing to ease the real pain tightening around his chest.

John had never felt this low before, having reached the rocky bottom of the pit of despair. He felt hollow and he curled his fingers into the fabric of his blanket to keep his hands from shaking. Richard Pratt was a first class asshole, but he knew how to weed through the bull and get to the heart of the matter.

John had screwed up; screwed up a ton. His mistakes had cost way too many lives and he was due for a comeuppance. Pratt was right; maybe everyone had been throughout his life.

His military career was about failing upwards and fucking everything up in his path. God, he _was _reckless. So much death and so much blood. John reached at his side for one of the extra pillows and brought it over his stomach and held it tightly. His body trembled and he took a deep breath to prepare for what he wanted to do.

It took forever, his belly, chest and hip all aching in protest, but the pain medication numbed everything enough for him to roll to his side. John cried out, the last part ending in a low whimper as he curled his legs slightly. The pillow braced his belly and he buried his head into the rest of the pillows to hide away.


	18. Chapter 18

"Thanks again, Chuck. And in your next contact, tell Walter a round of Pink Squirrels are on me… … … yeah, they are pretty gross but he likes 'em…. Affirmative. Carter out."

"Pink Squirrels?" Rodney asked disbelievingly.

"Don't ask," Sam said with a tired shake of her head. "So, Chuck brought Walter on board. And General Landry has… well, let's just say that _don't ask, don't tell _has a different significance right now."

"Huh. Landry's always been a crusty old fart, as far as I was concerned. Never seemed inclined to give me the time of day," Rodney replied with a small pout as he plucked at the sock exposed by his crossed legs.

Sam fought to hide her smile and barely succeeded in clearing it from her face before Rodney looked up. "Thankfully, the general dislikes the IOA more than he does pretty much anyone else. And, the way I heard it, when Dr Weir put Sheppard up for promotion, General Landry was actually grudgingly for it after push came to shove."

"You're kidding. By the book Landry wanted Sheppard promoted? I heard differently."

Sam nodded as she sat back in her chair. "You're not military, Rodney, and so I wouldn't expect you to understand… but you don't make it to General by always being 'by the book'. It's too confining, constricting. It isn't possible to _write_ a book comprehensive enough to address every situation. And since the Stargate program..?" She laughed and sat forward at her desk. "Can you imagine writing the chapter on alternate realities? _When confronted with another 'you' from one of an infinite number of alternate dimensions, make sure to address them with a proper salute in case they outrank you in their reality." _

Rodney chuckled and shook his head. "Do clones get to draw the same salary as their progenitors? Do you curtsey or just scream in abject terror when meeting a Wraith Queen? Huh. So your point is…?"

"My point, Rodney, is that Jack - General O'Neill- and Generals Hammond and Landry… well, they were put in charge of SGC projects because of their ability to think outside the book. I think Landry saw that in Sheppard after Dr. Weir pointed the fact out to him privately. I think she used the kettle and pot argument."

"Too bad that's not enough for the IOA," Rodney snorted.

"Like it or not," Sam began as she collapsed back into her chair, "we really _do_ need the IOA."

"What? To make sure all our reports are in twelve point Arial? That annoying members of royalty are treated with the proper groveling and deference?"

"It's not all just that, Rodney," Sam sighed. "The Oversight part has a purpose. Check and balances. It's all about checks and balances. I mean, come on, Rodney! If you had your way we'd spend our entire budget on atom smashers and nanite research."

"Not all of it," he spluttered indignantly.

"No, of course," Sam appeased him with a smile. "Some of it would go to state of the art barista equipment and audiovisual theater systems."

"Coffee is a fuel like any other kind and even a genius needs mindless entertainment on occasion…"

"I couldn't agree more," Sam smirked as she sipped at her lukewarm coffee. "This actually tastes like crude oil…"

"I sincerely hope I'm not interrupting your little coffee klatch," came a distinctly _insincere_ voice from the doorway.

Sam looked up to see Pratt framed in the entranceway, a cold smile on his handsome face. Forcing herself to put her coffee down calmly, she rose smoothly and gestured him into her office.

"Mr. Pratt. To what do we owe this pleasure?"

"Colonel Carter," he nodded. His 'Dr McKay' sounded like the words themselves were distasteful as he acknowledged Rodney's presence. "I am here to discuss the rash of _issues_ I have run into of late in making my report to the IOA."

Sam readied her award winning performance. This meeting had been expected, and truth be told, they were all surprised it had taken this long. Pratt was like a snake, coiled in the grass, content to wait until the optimal moment to strike.

"I know, Mr. Pratt. Dr McKay and I were just discussing the matter. Please, sit down."

The bureaucrat shook his head slowly. "No, I don't think so. I have business that must be transacted with the IOA, Colonel."

"Well, as you have no doubt been made aware of, we are experiencing a problem with our gate system right now. This planet's polar alignment has been in flux, causing --"

"Polar alignment, Colonel?"

"Yes, Pratt. You know what a pole is?" Rodney broke in snidely. "All planets, being spherical in nature due to gravity pulling uniformly in all spatial directions… well, mostly spherical. There is some bulging at their equators, dependent on their mass… but that's Newtonian physics… a body in motion stays in motion--"

"Poles, Doctor," Pratt interrupted.

"Yes, poles. All planets have them. Earth has them. Perhaps you've heard of the North Pole, Pratt? Or did your parental units deny you the childhood fantasy of Santa Claus? Is that how you turned out so--"

"--The poles," Sam interjected smoothly. "Their alignment has been in flux, causing…"

"Causing an inflow of ionization from the polar regions of the magnetosphere," Rodney supplied.

Pratt raised doubting eyebrows. "And?"

"And we should bother with further explanation because your MBA was earned with classes in advanced physics? I could start with basic atomic theory and by the time I get to the neutron, the flux will have ended so let's just say 'ionization bad' and leave it that, shall we?"

Sam hid her smile behind a quickly raised coffee cup.

When Pratt turned his eyes on her she quickly straightened and nodded very seriously in confirmation. "Bad."

"I see…" A smile twitched at the corner of the man's mouth. "Just so I have things correct… please excuse my limited knowledge showing here… so far we have had shutdowns for routine maintenance, a suspected Wraith computer virus that turned out to be spyware that breached our firewalls…" At that he snorted with disdain. "I believe that was a Marine uploading…"

"Porn," Rodney said succinctly. "Those spammers really know their stuff. Even here in Pegasus I keep getting email offering me 'ways to really make her howl in bed'."

"Uh huh."

Sam colored a bit but stood from her desk. "And now we have this polar flux. Just a _really _unfortunate set of circumstances. But much of it is business as usual around here, Mr. Pratt. In fact, if you'll let us finish our discussion we may be able to get transmissions out soon. I'm sure the SGC is worried about our lack of contact over the last few days."

Pratt tightened his grip on his ever-present briefcase and smoothed down his tie- the only tell she'd seen the man exhibit. "Let's just hope that mice don't get at the cables next, hm?"

"On Atlantis? Nope. At least not anymore. We have an indigenous amphibious creature that prowls the lower decks. The xenozoologists have been very intrigued by its metabolism…"

Pratt's fingers squeaked as they strangled the case handle.

"Yes. I know you're a busy man, and we have much work ahead of us, so good day, Mr. Pratt."

"Good day, Colonel. Doctor." And Pratt finally turned and left.

Sam waited a ten count then expelled the breath she'd been holding.

"Polar alignment?" Rodney snorted with a grin. "You're just lucky he really never made it past Rocks for Jocks as his science requirement."

"Nice save with the polar wind definition, Rodney," Sam nodded. "I… I just blanked. Jeesh. Gimme a Ha'tak filled with Goa'uld and I'm your gal, but wow. He's just…"

"Just as evil," Rodney finished. "Well, as you noted, I have work to do. Places to go, Pratts to deceive, and many miles before I sleep and all that. Actually…"

Rodney raised a hand to his earpiece and tapped once. "Radek? Yeah, I think one of the botanists reported mice in her nursery. I hope they haven't chewed through anything vital."

* * *

There was more to Ronon Dex than met the eye. Aside from the visible, outside layer for all to see, there were hidden ones, underneath. He was used to wearing different masks to fool and confuse those around him. The average person would see only what he wanted them to: the fierce unapproachable warrior. That's the way he liked it. It was always better to be feared than to be well liked. So, it didn't bother him that his team acted so surprised by the amount of patience he showed his CO.

He hated waiting for anything, despised over-planning or things that wasted resources and time. His quickfire temper was always tested under such tedious circumstances, however, it never flared when it came to Sheppard's recovery. No matter how long it took the pilot to walk down a hall or complete a simple task, Ronon stood by him. He'd encourage and insult the man to keep him motivated or offer silent support when things got bad.

It was something; he was the only one that Sheppard allowed back within arm's reach after the disaster in his quarters. Ever since they'd been kicked out of Sheppard's room and kept out of Pratt's conversation behind closed doors, things had changed. And not for the better.

"Am I gonna to have to carry you back?"

"No." Sheppard breathed heavily, leaning against the wall, slightly winded. "The… transporter... isn't far."

Keller would have Ronon's head on a spike for allowing this adventure. As much as he understood Sheppard's desire to get back on his feet, the man really needed a wheelchair. He glanced around in search of a place to sit but the hall was void of anything sit-on-able. It didn't help that the colonel had picked a longer route to avoid running into people, not that he would admit it.

"We went to the south pier yesterday, why not go back there?" Ronon asked, sticking really close by.

Sheppard stood up straighter, grimacing in pain. "Cuz I want to see... the north one."

The past five days had been the same. Ronon came by his friend's room, they took a walk with very little small talk. Each day Sheppard wanted to go somewhere different, somewhere further away. It was a huge physical toll on his team leader, but Sheppard pushed through it and when they were done, that was it. There was no hanging out, no eating meals or conversation.

Ronon waited for Sheppard to push off the wall and take purposeful steps towards their destination. "Teyla wants to know if you'll have dinner with her later."

Sheppard hobbled slowly, his right leg wobbly as he dragged that foot more than his left. He hunched over when he walked, causing him to huff for air in between words.

"Tell... her... no... thanks."

"Why?"

There was no immediate answer as they reached the transporter doors. Sheppard stared at the control panel, fingers hovering over the buttons before hitting the right one. He used the bar on the inside to rest most of his weight against, shoving his heavy glasses that never stayed in the right spot back up.

"I'm not good company right now," Sheppard finally said.

Ronon gave him a look that asked him when he was and got rewarded with the silent treatment.

The colonel braced his side with one arm, holding on for dear life to the bar with the other. Oh yeah, Keller would have his balls in a sling for allowing Sheppard to run himself down like this.

The transporter doors wooshed open and the trek towards the pier slowed to a painful shuffle. This was killing him, deep down inside Ronon _knew _this. Understood about pushing limits and the need to overcome injury. There also came a time to recognize a set of boundaries and the consequences of breaking them.

Sheppard could limp down a hallway easier without help, maneuver around his room, but these long distances were way too soon. Ronon felt a tug-of-war between the desire to respect the battle and knowing when to intervene.

The pier was relatively close by, down a long corridor and out the door, but Sheppard was white as a sheet, his movements shaky. The colonel took that moment to stumble, with nothing but air to break his fall. Ronon grabbed him, slung the man's arm around his neck and lifted.

"I'm... fine."

Ronon ignored Sheppard's protest, bore most of his weight and walked briskly towards the outside without breaking a sweat. He kept one arm around the colonel's waist, which was harder to do with sweat pants since there wasn't a belt to latch on to. They reached the pier and he guided them towards a bench, lowering Sheppard down.

"That was... completely unnecessary."

"We're here," Ronon gruffed.

Sheppard sat down, planting both hands on the bench to keep himself steady. "Yes, we are," he said, breathing in the ocean air.

The view out here looked the same to Ronon: an endless sea of frothy waves that touched the dark blue horizon. The piers had once been used for loading docks with platforms for ships to moor at and warehouses to store things in the sublevels. He scanned the water again and glanced over to see that Sheppard wasn't even looking at the sea. He was taking in the city and for the first time Ronon realized why they'd been going to the various piers.

"I've never noticed things from this angle before," Ronon said.

"You can see the least damaged sections from here. This is definitely the coolest view. All the towers are intact and you can even spot the observation post near the botany lab."

That was the most Sheppard had spoken to him in the past few days and Ronon didn't feel comfortable with the soft, morbid tone being used. His CO gazed at Atlantis almost longingly, seemingly etching it in his mind. Sheppard pulled off his clunky glasses, blinking owlishly a moment before resting his eyes on the buildings.

"Can you see better now?" Ronon asked. Everyone else was always so odd around Sheppard when it came to his sight; it was like some forbidden topic.

"Not without these things. My head's still messed up. I've got to wait til things are all healed with the nerves and re-train my eyes," Sheppard shrugged. "Pirogov says the last tests were better and that I'm making progress. But I wanted to look without 'em."

"You'll get everything back," Ronon replied, adding an extra bit of enthusiasm in his voice.

Sheppard showed no sign of hearing it. He sat hunched over with drooping shoulders, his mouth in a seemingly permanent straight line. The biggest warning sign was the man's eyes; there was no fire left in them, and it made Ronon clench his jaw.

"I'd kinda like to go into the labs again," Sheppard continued as if to himself. "Maybe when McKay's not there."

"Why?" Ronon didn't hide the slight anger in his tone.

Sheppard looked up, acting like he'd forgotten Ronon was even there. He chewed on his bottom lip, getting that uneasy expression he got whenever the subject turned into something Sheppard didn't want to talk about. "I don't want to see him."

"Because you're still pissed?" Ronon wanted to tell him how hard Rodney was working to clear Sheppard. How hard they _all_ were working, trying to stall that asshole.

Something flickered across Sheppard's face. Pain- a very deep pain. Then it was gone, buried even deeper inside. He rubbed at his eyes and slipped the thick prisms back on. "I just want to take another look around. In peace."

"We can go there tomorrow. They're just the labs," Ronon pointed out.

He didn't know how to react to the resigned chuckle. Sheppard gave him a crooked grin that was purely fake. "I don't think I'll be here much longer, buddy."

"Don't say that!" Ronon growled.

The colonel exhaled heavily, frown deepening. "Just facing facts." Sheppard bowed his head, opened his mouth to say something more, but lacked the energy to.

Rage threatened to overwhelm Ronon's senses. He balled up his fists and glared at his team leader, ignoring the reddish tint glazing his vision. "You didn't crash the jumper."

"Yeah, I did."

"Doesn't matter!"

"Ronon--"

"--McKay will find the reason and if not... Who cares!" Ronon wanted to kick something and aimed for the bench before he realized what would happen. He fumed, feeling his muscles tremble. "We'll find a way."

Ronon hated staring at those things over Sheppard's eyes; it was like he was hiding behind them. His commanding officer just sat there, staring blankly at the ocean. It was infuriating.

"I'm an officer in the United States Air Force. I have to follow orders; you know what that means."

"Pratt's not military."

"He reports to them."

"Then fight back!" Ronon snapped.

Sheppard finally looked up at him, taking great effort to lift his chin. "I've made a lot of mistakes... mistakes that have cost people's lives."

Ronon wasn't good with this sort of thing. "You're telling me your leaders never made choices where people died?"

The only sound was waves, crashing below, and he grew irritated at the looming silence. "Everyone carries guilt, Sheppard. Making tough decisions wouldn't be hard if you didn't."

His words were carried away with the breeze; Ronon couldn't take it and stormed over towards the railing. He didn't know how to fix this, how to fix Sheppard. Knocking some sense into him came to mind, but the only person Ronon really wanted to pound was Pratt. How did that pathetic insect do something that Kolya, the Wraith or any other enemy hadn't been able to?

Staring at the same thing lost in thought grew tiresome and Ronon reluctantly turned around to face the colonel. The man was obviously tired and in pain from sitting around for too long, but there was something more.

Ronon had seen enough wounded animals in the wild to recognize defeat. Sheppard was just going to lay down and wait to be finished off.

"Think I've had enough air," Sheppard admitted.

Ronon didn't say a word, afraid of what he might say. Instead he stood by and tried to allow the colonel to do things under his own power, even if it was clear that his muscles had stiffened up over time. Unable to stop himself, he finally grabbed an elbow since the pilot needed the extra help to stand and regain his balance and they began the excruciating long way back to Sheppard's quarters.

The transporter doors closed and Sheppard leaned on the inside wall once again, both hands hanging on to the railing. "Tell Teyla I'm sorry about dinner."

"You tell her."

It wasn't until they exited and were in the hall once more that Sheppard spoke again. "I can't," was voiced almost too softly to hear.

"Why not?" Ronon asked sharply.

Silence was the only reply as Sheppard winced in pain, each step taken at a terrible cost. They stopped often, allowing his friend to regain his breath before forging on. The question hung in the air all the way to their destination.

The colonel palmed the control, used the archway for support and turned to him. Sheppard was pale, sweat dotted his brow and he had to swallow before talking. "I...I don't want to say goodbye to everyone." He looked down the empty hall. "I'm still surprised that... that I haven't been escorted back to Earth yet. Keep... keep waiting."

Ronon was too stunned to say anything.

"That's why," Sheppard finished and turned around to limp heavily inside, the door closing shut behind him.

Ronon's whole body shook, his emotions swirling around in a whirlwind. This wasn't how things were going to end. Over his dead body. He stormed down the hallway, formulating a plan as he went. He ignored everyone in the corridors who scattered at his blistering demeanor, one scientist running right into a Marine in his haste.

It didn't take long to track down some of McKay's minions and find out where their boss was hiding. Normally he'd enjoy how the other geeks quivered in front of him and lost their abilities to form complete sentences, but not today. He made his way through the cramped biologylab, a tiny room stuffed with equipment stacked haphazardly around. Zelenka and his teammate were too busy mindlessly bickering to notice him.

"McKay," he called.

"I'm telling you, Radek. We have to load up a _fake_ Trojan horse to make it _look_ like it's screwing up the primary systems," Rodney snarled, fingers tapping away.

"McKay!"

Ronon didn't wait for another of the man's annoying rants. He grabbed Rodney's shoulder and spun him around. "We're leaving. Now!" He ignored the enraged squawk and tugged on a fistful of shirt. "Let's go."

Zelenka nearly knocked over some of the precarious stuff when he hustled to get out their path.

"What the hell? I'm in the middle of--"

"--Later. We have something important to do."

"Excuse me?" Rodney could barely keep up the pace Ronon set and tried to pry away the fingers uselessly. "Let go of me!" he snapped, red-faced. "You've really gone off the deep end! I don't have time to--"

"--Shut up, McKay. We're having a meeting. And you're going to listen." Ronon wasn't in the mood for any shenanigans. "This is about Sheppard."

"When isn't it? What do you think I've been doing? Planning the next Jenga tournament? I've spent the last five days perfecting the fine art of sabotage. I've been giving Oscar worthy performances and orchestrating the greatest acts of espionage with half the staff and gate crew."

Ronon ignored the relentless blather as they maneuvered through the city. He stopped dragging Rodney around by the collar, instead ensuring the man followed with a steely glare. They arrived in front of Teyla's room, Ronon impatiently signaling the chime. Rodney stood there, arms crossed over a puffed out chest, his foot tapping incessantly until the door opened.

"Ronon? Is something the matter?" Teyla asked, worried.

"Yes! Conan barged into my lab and manhandled me here! He's obviously snapped," Rodney huffed.

Teyla moved, allowing them to enter, her face puzzled. She settled a set of quizzical eyes on Ronon. "I'm sure there is a good reason for his behavior."

"We need to talk to Sheppard," Ronon said succinctly.

"Please, he doesn't want to speak to us," Rodney said, rolling his eyes. "Sheppard made that perfectly clear. He's too busy eating small children and plotting all our demises." He paused. "Except for maybe one of us. I guess the insane tend to flock together."

"Please, Rodney, let Ronon explain things." Teyla pulled up the layers of her skirt and gingerly walked over to the bed and sat down heavily. "I take it he did not take me up on my offer for dinner?"

"He doesn't want to see you," Ronon growled. He sent daggers at Rodney. "He doesn't want to see anyone. Thinks he's going to be forced back to Earth." There was no need to elaborate on what Sheppard spoke of in a moment of private pain.

"News flash! If we don't come up with a miracle, he is!" Rodney snarled, turning his back on them, clearly at a loss of control and trying valiantly to regain it.

Teyla as usual was calmer, only her eyes betraying the fear there. She rubbed at her enlarged stomach in thought, the sadness that weighed heavily on her heart in every stroke. "Is there nothing else we can do?"

"Like what? Kidnap him?" Rodney turned around, his stress level visible by the dark smudges under his eyes and a day's worth of stubble on his haggard face. "We have theories and clues. Nothing else."

"Do you not always test your ideas to prove them one way or another?" Teyla spoke with conviction. "Why not follow them and see where they go. We have nothing to lose and much to gain if we can prove what caused the jumper to crash."

"We need to go back to that planet and find out." Ronon rested his hand on the butt of his weapon, always taking away a feel of power from it. "We shouldn't leave until we do."

"I think Colonel Carter would allow us this last option to clear John. As I do not believe we can keep Mr. Pratt trapped here any longer." Teyla looked to McKay who stood strangely in silence. "If anyone can find the elusive answer it is you, Rodney."

"Of course, because everyone turns to me when there's one second left and the whole universe will explode if I don't do the impossible. May I add that this is while the Aqua Velva man interrupts me every three seconds to ask me how much longer. Not that I've been busy or anything with stalling a certain pencil pusher."

Ronon knew that was McKay's way of saying yes. That left one last thing. "We still need to talk to Sheppard."

"Why? Let the man brood in peace. We'll fix things and save the day. Bring him back to the light side of the force later."

"He's in a dark place that has nothing to do with magic," Ronon said softly.

"Because he likes living in a cave."

Ronon whirled on his sarcastic teammate. "I've never seen him like this."

"I don't think Colonel Sheppard has ever faced this kind of ordeal before," Teyla reasoned. "Is he not getting better?"

"He's stronger. He can move around...it's..." Ronon struggled for the right words. "If we're going to help Sheppard, he has to believe he's worth saving. He should want to be involved."

The reality of the situation dawned on the rest of them and the group came to a consensus together.

"We will go to him now. Be there for him and raise him back up," Teyla announced, standing.

Ronon nodded, still unsure how to do it, turning his eyes on Rodney and waiting expectedly.

"I don't own a pair of pom-poms and I don't know any cheers, thank you very much," Rodney snarked. The scientist sighed loudly for dramatic effect. "Fine. Everyone else always expects me to do cartwheels, why not the two of you."

* * *

John adjusted the icepack on his sore hip, wishing the numbing effect would sink into the rest of his aching muscles. He drifted off, waking up to discover the condensation had soaked the sheet under him. The reason for his awareness chirped again and it took a woozy moment to realize someone was outside his door.

"Hold on," he called out, annoyed.

Pulling up his sweat pants and tossing aside the blue icepack, John slowly swung his legs around and stood up. He searched his nightstand for his glasses, grabbed the lens and slipped them on, the door beeping insistently.

He was in no mood to talk to anyone and would tell whomever was outside to leave him be. Unless it was the MPs he'd been expecting every hour. John limped heavily, a thousand milligrams of ibuprofen the only thing in his bloodstream between pain pills and leaned on the door jamb when it slid open.

His team converged inside without greeting or asking permission, leaving him gaping at their presumptuous behavior. "I was sleepin'," he growled at them.

"You have plenty of time for that later," Rodney groused, looking for a chair.

Teyla followed and the scientist offered her the seat which she took graciously. Ronon simply took up space against the wall, not backing down from John's baleful glare.

This was the last thing he wanted: an ill-fated ambush for whatever well intentioned reason. It hurt too much to be reminded what was being taken away and John was forced to sit on his bed before the cumulative effect knocked him down. There was simply nothing left in the gas tank to fend off the emotions threatening to overwhelm him.

"Guys," he sighed tiredly.

"Don't!" Rodney snapped. "We have a serious situation on our hands that effects all of us. Not everything is about what you want, Colonel. This is bigger than you."

"What he means is we wish to speak to you about something vitally important to Atlantis and we would hope you'd listen," Teyla's voice soothed the bitter bite of their teammate's.

Nothing could ever dampen his instincts towards the protection of the city. John swallowed thickly, looking from anxious face to anxious face and nodded. "What's the emergency?"

"Our most valuable resource has been compromised," Teyla explain solemnly. "If we can't fix it then a lot of lives are in danger."

"What happened?" John questioned, wondering why no one radioed him about anything dangerous.

"An enemy slipped into the city unnoticed and sabotaged our defenses," Ronon's voice rumbled.

John pushed off the bed shakily, eyes darting for his weapon. "When? What's our status?" He reached for his com, snagging it. "Has Colonel Carter been briefed?"

Rodney was on his feet, snatching the radio away. "She's in the loop, Sheppard. That's why we're here."

"I don't understand. Don't you have something more important to do? Am I needed in the chair room?" John asked, heart pounding. He couldn't fathom why they'd waste time to report to him.

"No. And sit down. You look ready to fall flat on your face," Rodney huffed, inching closer nervously.

"I'll stand," John insisted, feeling increasingly anxious. He was still wrung out from his exertion earlier and didn't know how many times he could sit and get back up again. His brain went over various crises, wondering why there had been no city-wide announcements. "Have communications been compromised?"

"No, the situation is delicate and very few are aware of the danger," Teyla said, still not explaining their presence.

"I don't--"

"--We're here because Atlantis is about to lose its military commander," Rodney blurted, using a tone reserved for harsh tongue lashings, but his face faltered and his mouth did that quiver thing it did whenever he was upset. "Atlantis can't afford... I mean," he stumbled. "..._we _can't afford to lose you."

Sheppard wasn't sure what shocked him more. The words or the desperate tone. He didn't know what to say, glancing at his team and seeing the same sorrow and grief in each of their eyes.

It panged him to see such open emotions from them; this wasn't how they did things. Sheppard couldn't bear to look them in the eyes, the weight of his failures forcing his head down. He didn't deserve this.

"I..." He licked his lips, struggling to form a coherent thought. "You..." God, this is why he was such a disappointment.

"He's telling the truth," Ronon said bluntly.

The sentiment was overwhelming because Sheppard knew exactly which part of Rodney's statement the big guy was referring to. But this wasn't the time for emotions; his team needed a reality check.

"I've screwed up. Many times," he said, quickly before any objections. "People have died because--"

"--People have _lived_ because of you," Teyla interrupted this time. "The dead are burned into our minds but they should not overshadow all the ones who are still around today. The fallen are preserved by our memories. The living carry on and will continue to have an impact on so many more."

Sheppard shook his head. The burden of being upright became too much and he sat back down before his leg gave out. Rodney was at his side, hands outstretched, but didn't touch.

"A couple of rights don't make up for too many wrongs," Sheppard exhaled heavily, riding out a wave of pain that lit up his entire torso.

"They would if everyone else was dead," Rodney snorted. "Let's face it, Colonel. I've saved us from the brink of doom more times than I can count, but so have you. We've all made mistakes, but we've all done a lot of things right. And none of it counts if no one's around to keep score."

McKay didn't pull his punches and a part of Sheppard selfishly wanted to believe him. That the good outweighed the bad, but blood stains were really hard to forget.

"When Kolya had you, did you submit?"

Ronon's question was a jab to the gut and Sheppard whipped his head around to stare at him defiantly.

"When I was taken by the Wraith or when I left Atlantis, did you ever give up on me?" the Satedan pressed.

"When the Replicators attacked, who would have led us?" Teyla stood up and walked towards the bed. She came over and sat down next to him... not too close but enough that Sheppard couldn't avoid looking at her. "How many times have you gone back to save a Marine or a scientist that no one else would have?"

"Who would have done what you did for my sister?" Rodney's eyes got that vulnerable look. "Who would have done that for... for _me_?"

"The Wraith. Replicators. Genii. Countless enemies and we've faced them all, together," Teyla spoke. "Civilians look up to you and when they see Colonel Sheppard, they know he has a plan. Soldiers seeing you alongside them will do the impossible, knowing you've got their backs." Her hand inched closer on the bed, but didn't breach his personal space.

"Who would ever keep McKay in line if you were gone?" Ronon asked with a knowing smirk in place.

Rodney glowered. "Who could control Conan?"

Sheppard stared at his hands, letting the words wash over him. He thought of all those he left behind no matter how hard he tried and slowly looked up at his team, thinking of what his life would have been like if he'd lost any of them.

He closed his eyes, feeling the way the city hummed off in the distance, thinking of the loss of never being connected to it again. Did he dare believe?

Then his hope crashed.

"It... it doesn't matter. I mean..." Sheppard pushed up on his glasses. "Pratt's gonna..."

"--We came here because all of us are going back to Dargara to find out why the jumper crashed," Teyla spoke up.

Sheppard looked around confused.

"We're going back to the planet to check out that thing," Rodney said exasperated.

"What thing?"

Atlantis's resident genius rolled his eyes at him. "Oh, I forgot. We were going to tell you about it a few days ago but your evil doppelganger was here instead. It could have been a pod person; I'm not sure."

"McKay, I'm not in the mood for one of your--"

"There was an anomaly we picked up on...kind of." Rodney cleared his throat. "It might explain the electrical mystery involved with the jumper."

"Mystery?" Sheppard inquired, not following.

"Not only was the jumper drained of power, every other device on board was, too. Your laptop, for example. Meaning…" He snapped his fingers. "That something intervened with it somehow. In other words, it wasn't your fault that it crashed."

"The power went out in it?" Sheppard asked, a bit suspicious.

"Yes. Zapped, gone forever. So, nothing recorded what might have affected it," the scientist replied smugly.

Teyla and Ronon didn't say anything, all of Rodney's theories running over all of their heads.

"And you found something?" Sheppard asked, trying not to sound too interested.

"Well, sort of."

The answer didn't surprise him; Rodney always had a way of pulling things out of thin air. It didn't give Shepard any confidence. After all, he did fly through a storm. Even if some imaginary influence messed with things, it was still his bad judgment that led to the accident.

Ronon let out a sound of frustration and Rodney turned to him. "I know this has nothing to do with shooting things but try to keep up! Zelenka and I _both_ spotted an energy signature that shouldn't have been there. It could be responsible for whatever fried the jumper's power system."

Sheppard rubbed at his hip unconsciously. "What signature?"

"It was this...well, it appeared over the Barrens two different times and--"

"Rodney," Sheppard sighed. Grasping at straws wasn't going to help things.

"Naquadah. There was a brief appearance of naquadah sign and before you give me that look... I know geologists already went over the area. But we saw it. Twice."

Rodney paced in the tiny room, hand gesturing for no other reason than restless energy. Or too much caffeine. Maybe both. Sheppard couldn't watch him go back and forth without making him dizzy and he didn't voice his doubts about the theory. It was obvious how hard Rodney was clinging to this tiny scrap of hope, but it would be cruel to allow his friend to actually believe it.

"You said twice. Did it just disappear?" Sheppard asked.

"Something's blocking it... or it could be a random phenomenon," Rodney defended.

Sheppard couldn't encourage this mode of thinking. "It just turned itself off?"

The finger snapping hurt his head but Rodney was animated. "Yes! That would make sense, wouldn't it? That someone was controlling it."

Sheppard felt three sets of eyes on him. "The people with steamboats just happen to have a little window of time space under their engines?"

A hand squeezed his knee and Teyla held onto his gaze. "How many times have things been more than they seemed?" She turned to McKay. "One way or another, there was _something _there. We need to find out if it was natural or not." The Athosian appeared thoughtful, brow furrowed. "It occurs to me, as you said, the energy source was over the Barrens."

"Yeah. Why?" Rodney asked.

"Brenon's lands extend to the Barrens. I wonder if he's aware of anything odd there."

"Who's Brenon?" Ronon asked brusquely, beating Sheppard to the question.

"He was at the dinner; he is a very prominent figure on Dargara."

Sheppard forced himself to face Teyla directly; trying to look at her from the side only caused his vision to blur and head to hurt. "Even if something did affect the jumper, I still took off after being warned not to. If I hadn't gone, Fahd might not have died."

"The storm isn't part of the equation, Colonel. The energy signature is," Rodney argued.

"The storm could have triggered it," Sheppard reasoned.

"We don't know that," Ronon objected.

"No, I know all of you are trying to help, but I didn't handle things with Fahd properly. I wanted to get back to help with the jumper modifications. I was... I was reckless. Let my temper influence my decision and a man died," Sheppard's voice rose with each word, summarizing the disgust he felt.

His job was to protect others and he had failed.

"You wanted to go home, but we stayed. You chose to stick around because Prince Fahd wanted to. You even took a walk alone and ran into Leora." Teyla looked over at Sheppard sadly. "Do you remember anything at all about that conversation?"

"No, nothing." Sheppard balled up his fists. "That whole day is gone."

"It was after you spoke to Leora that you wanted to leave. I... I think maybe something she said is the reason why, not your feelings towards Fahd."

"Then we'll find her," Ronon spoke up. He walked over, joining the circle around Sheppard. "She might know something."

"Like what?" Sheppard shook his head. "We're just jumping to conclusions."

"Leona works for Brenon. It is also his land where Rodney's rocks acted strangely." Teyla looked towards the rest of the group.

"Hm, now that's an interesting connection," Rodney noted.

Sheppard rubbed at the back of his neck, his mind wandering. His team was willing to do anything for him. "Fine. We'll go back then," he said, making a snap decision. His final one most likely.

"Excuse me? Who's _we_?" Rodney chuckled.

"I'm not letting you guys cause trouble with one of our closest allies and possibly strain relations as a result of this... this mission." Sheppard knew they wouldn't respond well to 'wild goose chase'.

"That's ridiculous!"

Ronon folded his arms and stared at McKay. "He can talk to the girl."

Rodney's expression was thunderous. "Sheppard is in no condition to go on a mission for Pete's sake!"

"He should be involved," Ronon argued. "We agreed about it."

"I didn't say he should be involved literally!"

"Don't fight about me when I'm right here," Sheppard said, annoyed.

"John, you had major surgery a few weeks ago. You still have a long recovery ahead." Teyla struggled with her tone, obviously trying not to talk down to him.

"I'm still the team leader." Sheppard shoved at his glasses. He couldn't admit the real reason for wanting to go, wanting one last memory of going off-world.

Maybe the rest of them could sense it or thought somehow he could help rescue himself, even if it was a pipe dream.

"It's not a good idea," Rodney said stubbornly. "You don't need to watch me look at rocks."

"Come on, McKay. If all of you really think something hinky was going on, who's the best person to get the girl to open up?" Sheppard humored him.

Rodney shook his head. "Yeah, well that's something you're good at."

"I do believe that there is something more going on than we think," Teyla said worriedly.

Ronon pulled out his gun and twirled it with gusto before slipping it back in his holster. "Don't think it's something we can't handle."

"Yeah? Try getting our plan past Sam and Keller," Rodney scoffed.

"What about Pratt?" Teyla asked.

Ronon looked at Sheppard. "We're aware of the threat and we've made plans to defeat it. As a team."


	19. Chapter 19

When Sam had first arrived on Atlantis she'd gotten the grand tour from both Sheppard and McKay so she could get both the military and science side of things. And now, running such an amazing city left her with little free time, but she would take every opportunity to do a little exploring on her own. She roamed around the various piers and towers, realizing it would take years to really take in the majestic scale of the floating wonder. The past week, she had learned more about the city's nooks and crannies than she had her entire stay.

Dealing with a place the size of Manhattan with a population of only a couple of hundred people, there was so much left to be investigated. Sam took the transporter down to one of the sub-levels, wondering how many more cloak and dagger meetings she was going to have to deal with. Watching James Bond films was one thing, but acting them out was another.

She walked down the darkened corridor, wondering what role she was playing. M? Q? She had a hard time picturing Rodney McKay as 007, but the man was doing a hell of an impersonation lately. As she rounded the next corner, she nearly jumped out of her skin when Ronon came out of the shadows.

"You're late," he accused.

"You do know that I would be missed if I didn't do something to cover my whereabouts," Sam explained, aware it landed on deaf ears.

Rodney fidgeted next to his towering teammate, rocking on the back of his heels. If McKay was nervous and silent, then something big was about go down. She swore if the next suggestion was some type of assassination... No, they wouldn't. Or they would and Sam would never be informed which was an even scarier thought.

"I've got to be back in the control room to maintain appearances of overseeing the 'repair' to the gate, so if you gentlemen would please--"

"--We're going on a mission to find out what brought down the jumper," Ronon said, stepping closer, ready to fight her on it.

Sam glared wide-eyed at Rodney. "Okaaay. And you're going based on what?"

Rodney pulled out his PC tablet from under his arm and showed her the 'evidence' of the powerful energy signatures again. Sam took the portable computer, studying the mysterious readouts that he had re-configured. "After years of trading and a thorough geological analysis of the area, you still think this could have been missed?"

The scraping of feet gave her the answer, but Rodney's eyes told her more before he spoke. "Yes, it's there. Something caused the spike; data doesn't lie."

That was bull and they both knew it. She had looked at this with him and Zelenka when they got back. It was one of the reasons she'd agreed to play cat and mouse with Pratt... it just wasn't enough of a smoking gun.

"Don't forget what we found in the jumper- the power drains to auxiliary devices," Rodney offered.

"I know," she replied, going over possibilities and realizing that time was against them. Hell, the clock had run out. They were just finding ways to cheat two seconds before the final bell. "Your theories?" Sam finally asked.

"It's either naturally occurring... or not," Rodney replied, mumbling the last part.

Ronon's posturing was the only clue she needed concerning the Satedan's thoughts on the matter. Bursts of powerful energy that took down jumpers were acts of malicious intent. The occupants had been a target for whatever reason. Not to mention that the presence of naquadah translated to Ancient tech and that complicated things.

"Our alliance with Dargara is not one I want to see strained by a witch hunt. Do you have anything else to go on?"

The thunder in both expressions would not dissuade her; they could not launch an investigation using the same tactics that the IOA was using on them. Sam listened about the servant girl and the timing behind John's change in behavior. Her eyebrows rose in curiosity about the connection between the woman and her employer and what lands this Brenon person owned.

Was it enough to back up such a mission?

No.

Would she authorize it, anyways?

"Okay, I'll let you guys go, but I want guarantees about keeping an open mind and even cooler heads," Sam directed her gaze at Ronon.

Rodney held up a hand. "We're bringing Teyla with us. She insists, plus she knows everyone here and can play the diplomat, so to speak."

"I want you to go fully prepared. I'm not liking the idea that if things are more than meets the eye that it could get hostile."

"Not a problem," Ronon boasted.

"Still, maybe we could come up with a better plan," Sam added.

She watched the daring duo stand there with very guilty looking faces and Sam waited for the next shoe to drop. When neither of them were willing to spill it, she pressed the matter. "What else? I know you're holding back on me."

Rodney sent a death glare at Ronon who ignored it.

"Sheppard's coming with us," the big man stated. Didn't ask, didn't consult, just mentioned it as an afterthought.

"Excuse me?" Sam looked between them, bewildered. "Colonel Sheppard? The guy we're trying so hard to clear, who happens to be recovering from some very critical injuries?"

"He wants to go," Ronon pressed.

"Too bad!" Sam spun to face Rodney, expression incredulous. "And you're playing along with this? I thought you knew better?"

"I...well...have you seen Sheppard lately?" Rodney stammered at first, took a gulp of air and put forth his defiant expression. "The guy's been acting like the poster child for Prozac."

"And for good reason, McKay! He's still going through a lot!" Sam normally had a rein on her emotions but too many sleepless nights and idiotic suggestions by those who were supposedly highly intelligent could erode that hold. "He's in no shape to walk around the city, let alone go off-world!"

"Sheppard's been walking around for days," Ronon defended.

"With your help!" Sam faced him then switched trains of thought. "What if there was a simple accident? He tripped and fell, or got knocked down. How would you feel if he suffered a major set-back? Colonel Sheppard is visually impaired and not very mobile."

"He should have a hand in his own fate. Sheppard's been dying one piece at a time while no one does anything to fix it! All of you are fine with allowing the IOA to punish him. Take him away for nothing!" Ronon's eyes were simmering, his voice booming in the hall. "He actually started believing all that crap. Still does." Ronon turned to Rodney, looking for confirmation. "He just wants to go on one last mission. What he needs to do is learn the truth firsthand."

Sam considered the man's words, but she was shaking her head. "The safety and well being of everyone of Atlantis is my responsibility. I can't allow John to--"

"--then send him to Earth yourself. Or stick him in a cage, because that's what'll happen to him," Ronon snarled.

"Back off, Conan!" Rodney jumped in. "Sam's allowing us to go on the mission. We can go and find the answers. Come back and--"

"--Without Sheppard, that girl might not talk. He might even remember stuff."

"Oh, please," Rodney humphed. "The odds of that happening are the same as you learning to do a polka." He turned to Sam, arms crossed. "However, write this down, but I think Ronon's right. The mission has a better chance of success if Sheppard comes with us. It's our last chance, end of the third period in sudden death. The fat lady singing. Let him do this. Let _us._"

Sam rubbed at her temples, every part of her saying no. Except for a tiny voice whispering in her ear. Damn it! She hated it when that one spoke up.

"Fine. I'll inform Keller, but she won't be happy about it." Sam exhaled heavily, wondering when she'd become such a softie. "But you guys are going to do this my way."

* * *

The third chirp of the door chime went unanswered and Jennifer tapped her foot impatiently. The bags she carried weighed heavily on her shoulders. And the righteous burn of anger she'd had since talking to Colonel Carter was fading, to be replaced with a niggle of concern at the lack of response.

After the fourth chirp she activated her medical command override on the door and entered, heaving a sigh of relief as she heard the sound of the shower running in the small bathroom.

She dropped the bags off and walked over to the door, rapping sharply on it.

"Colonel Sheppard?"

There was no immediate response and she had her knuckles poised to allow one more knock for politeness' sake when she heard the water cut off from within.

"Colonel Sheppard, it's Dr Keller."

"Just a second, doc," came a hurried reply.

She checked her watch then began to wander about the room, finally picking up a comic she recognized and flipping through the first few pages. The next time she looked at her watch, the 'second' had turned into the hand ticking into the fifth minute since she'd knocked.

She returned to the bathroom, about to tell him she was coming in, when the door opened to allow the exit of a cloud of steam and shampoo scent and a still pretty wet and limping colonel. His glasses were completely fogged up and water dripped from his sopping hair. A towel had been hastily wrapped around his waist and he held another in his hand.

He drew up as he sensed her presence blocking his way and he stumbled against the door jamb. "Geez, doc. Give a guy some space."

"More like give an inch and watch him take the whole yard," she muttered as she took an arm to steady him.

John flinched a little at the unexpected contact, then allowed her to help guide and support him over to the bed so he could sit down. It was actually more of a controlled collapse and she waited while he caught his breath before starting her speech. And boy, did she have a speech prepared for him.

But all her carefully prepared words faded away as she watched him pull the fogged over glasses from his face and wipe the lenses with the corner of his towel before shoving them tiredly back into place.

"Was tougher than I thought it'd be," he said to his lap. "Kinda ran outa steam there at the end. Think it was all on these stupid glasses," he added, raising his eyes to her finally with a sad smile. "Thanks for the assist. Nice timing."

"No problem. Although the timing wasn't pure coincidence. I just talked with Colonel Carter…"

She sat down at the end of the bed and folded her arms across her chest as she was reminded again why she was there. "She tells me you have a completely asinine idea of going on a mission."

"Not really a mission, doc. More like a futile act, born of desperation. Or maybe just a last chance to be a part of a team. My team."

She'd been prepared for an angry retort, defense of his actions. Protestations of how he was 'fine' and a brush off of her concerns.

Her defensive posture slipped and her hands fell to her lap. "Why do you think this is necessary?" she finally asked.

John's reply was a shrug. Then he pulled his glasses off and tossed them on the side table before picking up the second towel and dropping it over his head; the concrete manifestation of blocking her out couldn't have been more blatant if he'd put his hands over his ears and sung 'la la la, I can't hear you.'

He rubbed the towel roughly over his head in a brief but fervent burst of effort; mere seconds later his arms dropped to his side and his posture slumped.

She rose and stepped up next to him. "May I?"

The towel covered head nodded after a slight hesitation, then she began helping, rubbing gently at his scalp, especially careful not to jog his head too much or press too hard where it was still tender towards the back. When done she pulled the towel away. His hair stood at angles she wouldn't have thought possible in a three dimensional world and she quirked a smile as she turned to drape the damp towel over a chair back. "You need anything else? I don't imagine you own a comb- what about gel?"

He ruffled his damp hair once with a bashful smirk. "More of a wash and go kinda guy, doc. But thanks."

"No problem-o." She leaned her hip against his bureau and looked at him seriously. "So. You gonna tell me now?"

John sighed and plucked at the end of the towel. "I'm not going anywhere unless I talk to you, am I?"

"Nope."

He nodded then ran his hand lightly down the dark pink scar on his middle. "Almost doesn't hurt anymore," he commented. "Still surprises me when I bend or lift my arms."

"The surface heals fastest," Jennifer replied, allowing this meander off subject, waiting to see where he was headed. "The underlying layers of muscle take longer, but you are healing very well. Not Wolverine fast," she joked with a nod towards the comic she'd been reading earlier, "but pretty darn good for a non-mutant."

"Coulda used the adamantium skeleton," he agreed with a rueful rub at the back of his head. "But, my last set of tests with Pirogov went pretty well," he said. "He was 'wery' impressed with my progress."

"Your bleed has resolved," Jennifer confirmed for him. "Your eyesight should continue to improve over the next few weeks, especially if you continue with the glasses and the exercises."

"Whoda thought there'd be push-ups for your eyeballs?"

"If there's a muscle, there's an exercise for it." She pushed further up on to the bureau to sit fully on its surface, tapping the backs of her heels against it lightly. "So with all these improvements, what makes you think this will be your last mission?"

John sobered, chewed thoughtfully on his bottom lip, then looked up at her with a serene calm. "Because it should be."

She blinked, surprised again by him. After all her months in the city, all the care she'd provided John, the meals and camaraderie she'd shared with him, it occurred to her that she didn't really know this man very well at all. And she wondered if anyone really did.

As reluctant as she was to prod this most private of men further, this was no different than any other treatment that was uncomfortable for the patient. True healing couldn't happen sometimes without a little pain in the process.

"Why would you say that?"

He smoothed his hands over the nubby terrycloth and shifted with a grimace on the bed. "Because it's true. Can't we just leave it at that?"

"Do you think you won't be physically able to lead your team?"

He shook his head dismissively. "Not anymore. It's ironic, really… my biggest fear right after the crash was that I wouldn't heal. That I'd be discharged because of my injuries, sent home with a disability pension and another Purple Heart collecting dust in its case. My sight… it… well, let's just say, I have noticed the improvement and I am confident you and Pirogov did the right thing."

"Good," she said firmly. "I told you the road would be hard but it would take you where you wanted to go, eventually. So if it's not physical… is it your state of mind? Are you worried about the emotional fallout? Because there are ways of treating that, too, that we can work out with you."

"Nah. I know I haven't been a joy to be around during all this…" He paused and looked up at her expectantly.

"No argument here," she said with a raised eyebrow.

"Yeah, okay. I deserve that. And I'll have some apologies to hand out before I go. Harrison needs to be put in for a commendation for grace under fire."

"I already ordered her combat pay," Jennifer smirked.

"She earned it," John said seriously. "How she put up with me some of those days… anyway. It isn't my 'state of mind' as you put it."

Jennifer waited for the follow-up, then realized it wasn't coming. "You've given me a lot of 'isn't's, Colonel. If it's not your health and it's not your head… what is it? Tell me why I should let you go on this mission when you're not even cleared, or ready, for that matter, for the lightest of duties yet."

"I'm headed home, doc," John finally replied. "Back to Earth, I should say, since I considered…" He paused and took a breath before meeting her eyes. "It's been a long time coming, and my past mistakes are finally catching up to me. I have a lot to answer for… and I'd really appreciate it if we could leave it at that. I need to do this. I've got one last shot at the very least clearing my name for the crash. It may be too little too late, but I've never been a quitter."

He sighed heavily, then shrugged. "Not going down without a fight at least."

Jennifer absorbed his words and his attitude. He seemed truly convinced that this was his one and only shot and he clearly needed everyone in his corner if they were going to make it work. It was a good thing she'd come prepared.

She stood from the desk and clapped her hands together. "Well, then. Let's see if we can't get you ready to go. I still have my reservations, Colonel… serious reservations. But I'll do what I can to help."

He nodded in acceptance. "Thanks, doc. Not sure what you can do, but thanks."

"Save your thanks until we get you back in one piece. I've got instructions, and parameters and warnings and a whole list of do's and don'ts. And you're not going anywhere before a look over, got it?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said, and his sigh was more one of resignation than unhappiness.

After he'd been poked and prodded, his temperature, BP and pulse checked, and been stabbed in the eyes with the penlight he was thoroughly disgruntled and finally batted her hand away. "Enough, doc! I have to get going; they're meeting me in the jumper bay. I was supposed to be there by now."

"I made it perfectly clear to Colonel Carter that if I didn't deem you physically able to go on this mission, they could leave without you. I'm normally not one to throw my weight around, but as Rodney has reminded me, I am CMO around here and your health is my only concern right now."

She allowed her flare of self-righteousness to cool a little before continuing. "That said, no one is going anywhere til they hear from me. So relax, and let me finish, okay?"

He accepted her rebuke with a tired nod, then flipped the corner of the towel he still wore. "Can I at least get dressed now?"

She shook her head as she wrapped the BP cuff and stethoscope up and walked over to the bag she'd brought. "Not yet," she said as she packed away the equipment and rifled through for what she needed. "In fact, drop the towel and get into bed. You can cover up with the sheet," she continued as she pulled on latex gloves. "I didn't bring any drapes so the sheet'll have to do."

"Care to fill me in?" came his nervous reply.

She chuckled. "Lay down on your left side, close to the edge of the bed. I won't look." She waited a few more seconds, then, after hearing grunts and groans finally asked, "Ready?"

"Yeah."

She turned and walked over, a syringe in one now latex-covered hand and several alcohol pads and a Sharpie in the other. "I put in a call to an orthopod at my college. He handles injuries for the athletic department and specializes in joint trauma. I told him about the pain you've been suffering in your hip and he suggested a way I might make you more mobile."

"Whatever you got, I'll take," John said, still huffing after the effort of rolling on to his side.

Jennifer set the syringe, pads and marker down on the bedside table and fixed him with a serious look. "This is_ not _the way to do this. With time and physical therapy your injury will resolve without medical intervention beyond ice and anti-inflammatories. But, as my friend advised me, sometimes when the game is big enough…" She pulled the pillows off the end of the bed and helped John settle down flat, his one arm crooked under his head, the other clinging to the sheet at his waist.

"Here," she added as she picked up one of the bed pillows. "Put this between your knees. Bend a little at the waist and then pull your knees up a little."

John lifted the sheet and tucked the pillow into place, then bent his legs as instructed, grimacing as he did.

"We're just fortunate that it's your trochanteric bursa and not the actual hip joint itself that's causing your pain," she noted as she began ripping open the foil packaging the alcohol pads came in. "Otherwise, we'd need an hour or so with you under a scanner the whole time."

"I'm a lucky guy," John muttered into his arm.

"You are," she said firmly. "All right, this will take about a minute. No promises it'll be pain free but the lidocaine should take effect pretty quickly so just grit your teeth and try not to move. At all. Got it?"

He nodded and took in a few deep breaths before stilling in place.

Jennifer pulled the sheet back to midway down his thigh, exposing his entire right hip but allowing John to keep the sheet in place at his front. The pale flesh was still covered in an eggplant purple bruise but the edges had retreated inwards from when she'd first seen it and yellow was starting to become more predominant. She palpated for the protrusion of the trochanter, then continued to press firmly around the area. "Tell me when it hurts the most," she said quietly.

A few seconds later as she pushed against an especially swollen area he bit out a, "there."

"Got it." She left her finger in place, picked up the marker and drew a small target for herself on his flesh. She swabbed the area down well with the alcohol pads, then picked up the syringe.

"Another deep breath, Colonel," she instructed calmly. She waited for his exhale, braced one hand on his upper glute, then inserted the needle into his hip until she felt it hit bone. The muscle under her hand tensed but he didn't move so she pulled back slightly and injected the anesthetic and cortisone concoction into the cushioning pocket over the top of his femur.

It took a while to slowly administer the medication, then she pulled the needle out and gave the area a quick swab again with the alcohol.

"Done," she said as John pulled the sheet back up to his waist with a shaky hand. "How bad was it?"

"I've had worse," John sighed out as she tucked a pillow back under his head. "It involved a life-sucking alien bug, but still…"

"Sorry," she said ruefully. "Does it still hurt?"

He appeared to consider then raised his eyebrows. "No. No pain at all, there."

"Try flexing it - _slowly_."

He moved his leg under the sheet, just an inch at first, then drew his foot up and down a bit faster. "Feels pretty good, doc," he announced with a smile.

"Sounds like you're ready to play in the big game, then. You need any help suiting up?"

With her supporting him with a hand around his arm, John sat up slowly and slung his legs over the edge of the bed, keeping the sheet firmly in place she noted with a smirk. "Think I'm good. You uh - wanna gimme a minute?"

"I'll be right outside if you need me," she answered with a smile.

"No need to hang around, doc," John said with a shrug. "Just getting dressed and heading over to the jumper bay."

"And I'm waiting for you," she replied as she picked up the empty foil packages and capped the used needle. "We can go together."

"Go together?" he echoed blankly.

"You really think you're going anywhere without me? I told you there'd be conditions to your little trip. I'm one of them."

* * *

After a few minutes of packing and repacking her bag, double checking that anything she could possibly need, for any medical circumstances, was in her bag Jennifer rose from her crouch to check her watch. But before she could even try the door it opened.

John stood tall in his off world kit. Black tshirt, tac vest, black BDUs. His gun holster was wrapped around one thigh and his earpiece was back in place as well.

She cast an appraising eye over him as he walked out into the hall. His limp was almost gone, his gait steady and sure. Were it not for the slight hunch, slower movements, and the odd glasses he looked like the old John Sheppard.

"How does it feel?" she asked cautiously.

"It's not even sore around the injection site," he answered with a gesture at his hip. "Wish you'd done this weeks ago."

"Don't make me give you the speech again," she sighed.

"I know," he said, raising a hand to stop her. "No short-cuts, conservative approach. I hear you. This is great, though. At least I won't have to worry about people slowing to keep up with me as much."

"Oh, we'll be going slowly all right. I only improved your hip," Jennifer huffed as she hefted her bag over her shoulder. "Remember those instructions, parameters, etc?"

She finished with her list of admonishments and instructions as they reached the armory. A tall, hulking Marine with a sunburned bald head and a shit-eating grin on his face welcomed Colonel Sheppard back with a sharp salute followed by a hearty handshake and a promise that his Beretta was in perfect working order. John took them all with a broad grin and declined the offer of a P-90 when he saw Jennifer's head shaking no.

Ronon and Rodney appeared at the door frame with Teyla and Colonel Carter bringing up the rear. They all seemed to take John's presence in stride, not making a fuss over him, although if you looked closely you could see that they each had their eyes glued on him as he left the armory.

"There's a whole platoon of Marines already on board in the back," Rodney advised him as they approached the jumper bay. "Like sardines in a can," he muttered.

"There are _four_ of them, Rodney," Carter said with a sigh. "No visits to the planet without reinforcements. We agreed."

"No, you instructed," Rodney countered. "But, who cares, as long as I get to ride up front."

"You can have shotgun, McKay," Ronon offered with a grunt.

"Wow. This _is _a special occasion," John joked warmly. "Awfully nice of you, Big Guy… "

His voice trailed off and his smile fell as he walked up to the jumper. Richard Pratt stood there, briefcase in hand and a smug look on his face.

"I had heard you were headed down to the planet, Colonel. You're looking good. Hardly the man at death's door everyone's been painting you to be."

"What are you doing here, Pratt?" Ronon asked, stepping up to within inches of the bureaucrat.

"I'm coming along," the man replied coolly. "Is there a problem with that?"

Ronon loomed even closer, his hand on his blaster, and Jennifer felt the gathered team fall silent with tension.

"No problem," John broke in. "Welcome to the party, pal."

His words were odd and earned him puzzled looks from several people.

"Oh, come on," John said in exasperation. "John McLane?" He looked at the Satedan, the Athosian and the only four people on Earth who couldn't quote _Die Hard._

Jennifer cleared her throat and stood on tiptoes to get closer to John's ear. "What year did that movie come out?"

"1988," John replied warily.

"I was five. Sorry."

He slumped a little, then straightened with a deep breath. "Whatever. Let's go. And I'm driving."

His statement was met with several sets of raised eyebrows and Rodney readying a response but Jennifer had already begun a slow shake of her head. "Sorry, Colonel."

"C'mon," John sighed in exasperation. "It's more mental than visual, you all know that."

"Need I remind you, Colonel?"

With a roll of his eyes, John looked at her and replied resignedly. "Lemme guess. Not within parameters."


	20. Chapter 20

Being rejected from flying them down to the planet doused some of John's enthusiasm even if he would never let it show. Not with his team, the Marines, and Pratt all at the front row. If he couldn't be at the controls then he would take a spot in the back; the co-pilot's chair was a token symbol.

Captain Brenner mumbled a '_sorry, sir' _when he took John's proper place at the helm.

"No problem, Captain," he reassured Brenner with a nod.

The choice for seats was limited; Keller moved sideways to give him a place, almost ending up in Ronon's lap. The Satedan might have been amused any other day but he was busy flambéing Pratt with his eyes. Oddly, there was no room for the bureaucrat except at the back of the normally spacious jumper. Row upon row of narrowed, defiant eyes didn't seem to faze the guy as he took his tiny sliver of bench at the very end.

Rodney made sure Teyla was sitting comfortably before wiggling around in the confined space. He fiddled with his P-90, letting it rest on its tether, and patted down his vest, eyebrows making peaks and valleys in a furrow.

With an, _aha!_ Rodney pulled out a velvet case and handed it over. "This was a gift from Zelenka and Pirogov. They wanted you to have it for the mission."

Keller wasn't a very good actress; she smiled at Teyla, both women trying hard not to stare.

"Where is Zelenka, anyways?" John asked as he took the proffered case.

"Working on those jumper modifications we discussed earlier," Rodney said distractedly, watching as John flipped open the leather top and squinted inside.

John's eyes widened as he picked out a new pair of glasses, amazed by the lightness of the frames.

"The Slavic Wonders thought you might want something that didn't weigh a ton," Rodney added.

John took off his industrial strength set and slipped on the new pair. "Wow, these _are _really lightweight." He tested them out, the correction of his vision just as effective as the clunkier ones. They didn't try to slide down his nose which was the biggest plus. "I'll be sure to thank both docs when we get back."

"They look very nice on you, Colonel," Teyla said appraisingly.

Her compliment caused him to bow his head considering the company and he cleared his throat. "What's our ETA, Captain?" he asked, steering the attention away from his handicap.

"We've just started over the Barrens. We'll reach our target in under two minutes, sir."

"And where exactly are we going? Didn't see the proper itinerary filled out for this," Pratt asked.

Rodney was glued to the laptop he had connected to the jumper's sensors, fingers plugging away on the keyboard. "We're searching for a few things you didn't bother to investigate. Guess science is beyond your scope of tools."

"Ahhhh,yes. Your _blips_. Yes, it is a difficult chore to follow things that appear only for you," Pratt sneered, adjusting a hand on the wall of the jumper to keep from toppling over. He glared at the meaty Marine who wouldn't budge. "Either way, I guess this will make an interesting footnote to my report. Since the Stargate miraculously got repaired in time for this little adventure."

It was obvious from Rodney's flushed cheeks and set jaw that his energy signature wasn't showing up as they flew over the area where the jumper had crashed. John wasn't all that surprised yet still felt a pang of disappointment. McKay's wilder theories did have a habit of panning out from time to time.

"We'll be landing any second," Captain Brenner hollered.

Knowing they were about to touch down sent a spike of adrenaline though John. The timing couldn't be better; the heavy silence in the jumper was lulling him to sleep. Who would have thought a shower and a nice walk to the jumper bay could wear a guy out. Keller had her doctor's eyes on him most of the trip and he refrained from saying a word to justify the scrutiny.

The tiny craft landed, the hatch in the back opened, two Marines exited and gave the all clear sign. Pratt was out next, mixing in with the other soldiers; Ronon waited on Teyla and Rodney followed the Athosian out. John found standing up to be chore, his muscles having stiffened up during the short jaunt.

Keller waited on him, offering a hand up which he accepted now that most of the craft was empty except for Brenner, who was powering things down.

"Thanks," John huffed, wincing once he was upright.

"I'm right behind you," Keller informed him.

Walking out of the jumper took longer than he liked, but breathing in fresh air and feeling sunshine on his face renewed his motivation. His team waited outside for his instructions even though this was really the McKay and Teyla show.

"We're on Brenon's lands according to the instructions we had someone get from Tellen earlier," Teyla informed them. "His home is only a little ways ahead."

"Very convenient that you were able to send a person here and back for that intel in such a quick amount of time," Pratt stated, eying the surroundings.

They were surrounded by acres upon acres of farmland, but the soil seemed ravaged, the plants all drooping and stunted.

Teyla looked upon their surroundings with a sad expression. "Tellen and Mina spoke of the storms stripping away the fertile layers of soil, and trade becoming difficult with lower yields for the more prominent farmers of the area."

The four Marines fanned out to cover all directions.

Ronon grunted out, "People," and pointed off in the distance where two figures could be seen several hundred feet away.

"We should follow the path between the fields," Teyla instructed.

It was mid-afternoon and the sun was high in the sky, beating its rays down on the group. John signaled everyone to go; Ronon took their six while Teyla and Rodney took point. Pratt hung out somewhere in the middle, consulting his annoying PDA.

The ground was even, but they were walking on an incline and treading up even the slightest hill left John winded. His hip was nice and numb, the injection working its magical properties on the swollen joint; too bad there wasn't a way to block all the nerve and muscle damage along his incision site. Keller was right. The pink flesh on the surface appeared healthy: what lay underneath was a different story.

No one said a word as they took the hill in a slow, almost tedious gait. Even McKay had no problem at this pace and while everyone else showed no signs of working up the smallest sweat, John could feel perspiration roll down his neck and begin soaking the back of his t-shirt.

The two farmhands watched them approach warily, each holding a shovel. A third person, a woman, wheeled a cart from nearby, clearly alarmed by the suddenly assembled group.

Teyla approached the three, her uninjured hand held up in a show of friendship. "I am Teyla Emmagan and these are my friends. We're here to see your boss. Do not worry, we're not here to--

"--You are the rich people," the laborer to her left said.

Teyla smiled warmly. "Actually I'm from Athos and--"

"--We saw your airboat in the sky. We know who you are," the same man interrupted. "I am Kabe and this is my brother, Sempal."

John observed the pair for anything out of the ordinary. Despite the lingering doubt about the _success_ of this mission, it didn't stop his instinct to watch for signs of trouble. Both men wore light blue shirts with brown, durable pants. Their knees and legs were covered by dirt, both men's arms and faces tanned from many days in the sun. They seemed to be in their late thirties, but looks could be deceiving: years of hard work robbed people of their youth.

"Brenon will be here shortly; he is out trying to fix one of the barriers," Kabe explained.

The younger one, Sempal, stood there, hands gripping his tool tightly, eyes darting and staring at each member of the team.

"And what barriers are those?" Rodney asked, flicking his eyes from his tablet PC.

"The ones that control the amount of the water. The levels are messed up, too much flooding," Kabe answered as he gestured towards the east. "The young _geia _plantswere all washed away. We normally have the most plentiful crops because we are closer to the Barrens and further from the larger rivers. But we are near a small one that has gone over its banks many times."

"Sounds advanced for your society," Pratt spoke up, sweeping his gaze over the damaged fields. "And you still need shovels for the rest of your work?"

John winced at the lack of tact; Teyla and Ronon both burned holes in the back of the man's head.

"No, sir. These are to shovel the burning rocks to power the machines to till deeper into a new layer of soil. We have to clear a whole other field by the end of today," Kabe replied with obvious annoyance. He wiped a hand over the front of his shirt, leaving a smear of blackish soot before pulling out a pair of gloves. "If you don't mind, we have our work to do."

"Impressive. Coal power? Yet the Wraith don't bother you?" the bureaucrat asked, actually sounding curious.

"The Wraith have not been in a long time," Sempal replied proudly before reverting back to a silent observer.

John raised an eyebrow behind his glasses. "You've been very lucky."

Kabe shook his head and the two just walked away.

The young lady with the cart started wheeling it past them, glancing back as if expecting to be stopped.

"That is the woman we seek, Colonel," Teyla whispered. "Her name is Leora."

John knew this next encounter might shed light on a mystery that his memory had kept hidden. He relaxed his bearing and plastered on one of his charming smiles. Ronon kept his distance, Teyla lingered behind and Rodney—well, Rodney must have downloaded some really good porn since he never looked up from his screen.

"Hello, Leora," John said, approaching her.

The young lady paused, cheeks already rosy from the moderate heat of the day blushing darker. She patted away a strand of red curls that had fallen loose from where she'd bound it away from her face. "Colonel Sheppard." She said his name almost bashfully. "How...how are you? I heard you were badly hurt and I--"

"I'm feeling better. All the king's horses and men put me back together," he grinned. Leora looked at him quizzically. "Actually it was more like this one fair maiden and her wonderful helpers but...let's just say things are looking up."

He spotted Keller's flustered face, obviously giving him room to do his thing, but not enough that she couldn't hear what was being said.

"I'm… I'm glad. After I saw your ship...I mean...when we..." Leora nervously looked around. "You were so nice to me. You know, during dinner." She put down the wheelbarrow and smoothed a few of the wrinkles in her yellow shirt.

John felt a twinge of guilt; he couldn't recall talking to this woman and pretending to remember their conversations made him feel like a pompous ass.

"Yeah, about that."

"I'm sorry to hear about the Great Prince's death. I know he was a very important person and I shouldn't have let his remarks get to me. I mean..." She licked her lips and bowed her head. "It doesn't matter what he said."

A fire burned brightly inside him, more powerful than the increasing sting that ran down his chest and belly. "Hey." He grabbed her elbow. "No one's allowed to speak down to another person. No matter what their stature. You hear me?"

The young woman gave his forearm a squeeze, but was clearly embarrassed by the gesture and she dropped her hand. "Thank you, Colonel."

John half expected to hear McKay groan, however the man was near the edge of one of the fields with his head still buried in his laptop. The guy was going to put a crick in his neck. Pratt looked incredibly bored and the Marines walked a perimeter. Teyla tried to give him an encouraging smile, but there was no place to sit and John knew he wasn't the only one who really needed to get off his feet.

"Listen, Leora. I wanted to talk about...you know. What we discussed before I left that night."

"I really should get back to work," the young woman said and hurried along.

"Hey, wait." John was forced to follow at her quickened pace. "I don't want to cause you any trouble."

Leora pushed the cart faster. "I... I can't linger. Brenon doesn't have money to afford a house servant all the time. I go behind the machine and remove the larger rocks that clog up the grinder."

Keeping up with the obviously frightened woman lasted six steps before John stopped short to catch his breath and wrap arm around his body. Keller was instantly alert, making a bee-line towards him, but he held out his other hand to ward her off.

Leora dropped the handles to the wheelbarrel and was by his side. "Colonel Sheppard, are you okay?"

He stood as straight as he could muster, settling for a hunched over position. "Yeah...kind of walking at old man speed..." He took a long breath and righted himself the best he could.

"I am so sorry. There is a courtyard just a few paces away where you can sit down." She took one of his elbows to guide and steady him. Normally John would have shrugged away the offer, but he didn't want to rebuff her kindness and risk causing her to become more skittish.

John nodded, looking back to make sure the whole party knew what was up. Keller was going to tan his hide for breaking a couple dozen of her little rules. He had to hand it to the physician- she followed behind the rest of the group, still giving him breathing room to gather answers.

"Please, Leora. I...I need to talk about that night at dinner," he implored. He sensed her discomfort, knowing it went beyond mere bashfulness. For the first time, John started to think there was something being covered up.

"I… I can't. Brenon...he'll find out I told you."

John felt his heart skip a beat. There it was. "Why do you think we're here?" he feigned.

Leora swallowed; she looked ready to bolt away, but kept her hand on his arm. "Please, Colonel."

"Call me John."

Teyla inched up closer, the rest of the team holding a loose circle around them. Ronon, who was obviously aware of the tension, kept back and Pratt still acted unimpressed yet managed to be within earshot of the conversation.

"That… that wouldn't be appropriate, using your first name, Colonel," she stammered. "But I must go. Brenon will be here any minute."

The constant walking was physically taxing. John gritted through the growing pain and pushed his limits to remain steady on his feet. Sweat rolled profusely down his forehead and he braced his side with his arm. Keller looked ready to lasso him in but she must have sensed the delicate situation.

"Please, tell me again what we talked about. It's very important," John said quietly, allowing a glint of real fear and desperation to slip into his voice.

They arrived at the courtyard in front of Brenon's home, a much larger and grander dwelling than Tellen and Mina's, even at a distance. It had several levels and could easily hold several families from the sheer size. The front yard was clearly designed to host guests with a backdrop of splendor while keeping them at a safe distance from the rich home.

There was a small pool of water with a fountain; a set of ornate chairs surrounded it with tiny stone tables at each side.

"Please, take a seat: you don't look well."

"No," John replied, standing his ground despite Keller's fretting sounds.

He turned to suggest that Teyla take a load off, but she waited nearby with an expression that dared him to make the offer. This was 'it' and no one was willing to do a thing to break the possible moment.

There were signs of movement in front of the grand home; people were exiting out the front doors. John fiddled and pushed up his glasses out of habit, right hand resting on the butt of his gun.

Leora's eyes grew large as she began wringing her hands. "He's coming!"

"Why are you afraid of him? Whatever it is, we can help you."

"Leora," Teyla said, walking over to give him some backup. "Whatever you have to say, you can trust us. Nothing will happen to you. We promise."

Pratt made a throat clearing noise. "Badgering people to--"

Ronon grabbed the bureaucrat's arm and squeezed it tightly.

"What have I told you about touching me, you...OW!" The pencil pusher tried to pry away the fingers crushing his bicep, the increased pressure shutting him up and turning his face crimson.

"But... but he brought down your airboat," Leora stammered, body shaking as people approached the courtyard.

John was stunned; the admission was a shock so unexpected that it left him momentarily speechless.

Teyla ever quick, stepped closer. "Brenon brought down the jumper? How did he do this?"

"I...I can't tell you. But you left before he could finish his plans. I dare not say more. He comes from a powerful and revered family."

"What plans?" John demanded.

Leora looked at him bewilderedly. "To kidnap you and the Great Prince! I... I warned you what he was going to do because of how nice you'd been. I didn't want to see you get hurt."

The revelation both relieved and angered John and the rest of the group. Obviously he had struck up quite the conversation with Leora since Teyla was unaware he had made such an impression on her. There would be time for that later; this was just hearsay until they had real proof.

Ronon moved to meet the landowner and his pals. The Marines took defensive positions, hands poised but not yet drawing their weapons.

"Easy, everyone. No need for hostilities when we still don't have all the facts," John ordered as he put up a hand. "Just keep things cool," he warned, keeping in mind the civilians nearby.

Teyla brushed a hand over the sheath of her knife, Ronon's never strayed from his blaster. Keller and Pratt both shared the wide-eyed expressions of people not used to confrontations and wisely backed away.

John did a mental headcount, realizing for the first time McKay was nowhere to be seen. _Damn it!_

The owner of the large spread of land ambled within view, followed by six of his _laborers. _"What and to whom do I owe the pleasure of such a visit to my home?" The Dargaran smiled broadly and stopped a few feet away from the group. "I am Brenon," he announced, sweeping his eyes over the Lanteans. "I've already had the pleasure of meeting the esteemed Colonel Sheppard and Teyla Emmagan, but not anyone else." The man's eyes landed on the bureaucrat, taking in his fancy suit. "Are you another visiting royal?"

"Um, no… I am Richard Pratt of the IO…" he fumbled with his words, turning to John for guidance.

"That's Mr. Pratt. He's from the House of Red Tape, but you can call him Dick." John grinned coldly, enjoying the utter look of contempt shot his way.

"Well, it's nice to have such guests but I have business to attend to. My herds of _bovena _need my attention and that requires a trip by boat to reach them. Unless you want to give me a lift in your fine airship?" Brenon laughed. "I could really use one of those, considering how vast my lands are."

Brenon was not a large man, but he was well-muscled and carried himself tall. His face was hard featured with a strong nose, square chin and skin tanned deeply brown and heavily lined. His eyes were shards of polar ice, so blue as to be almost colorless. The only softness to the man was the baby fine blonde hair on his pate and a belly that showed too much rich food. His clothes were made of finer material, a white, long sleeved shirt under a jacket made of soft leather. It seemed too heavy for the heat; his pals wore coats as well which made them even more suspicious.

"I thought you were repairing one of your water barriers?" John asked.

"Hmmm, yes. I did that already," Brenon replied curtly. "As you see, I am very busy. Perhaps we could all chat another time." He directed his attention past John. "Leora," he snapped with his voice and his fingers. "Come here. You're coming with me."

John tensed up, taking a step in front of the younger woman. "Actually, I was going to give her a ride in my ship. The Barrens look really cool from the sky," John said, taking a gamble.

The Marines kept their eyes on Brenon's men as they slowly made their way around the group. Between Ronon and the Marines, their firepower easily outmatched whatever the thugs had hidden under their coats, but John didn't want to risk civilian lives in a gunfight.

Pratt looked a little lost by the whole threat of violence going on, but the man used his smugness to stay calm. He got a point for that.

Ronon gave him a hand signal. John kept his head still, trying to see with his peripheral vision which showed only fuzzy moving blobs coming up behind them. He winced, keeping his sight trained on his target.

"Leora is coming with me," Brenon snapped.

"Don't think so," John said, moving to completely shield the woman.

The Marines' P-90s hung from their vests; it took only a second to have them aimed and ready. They matched four of Brenon's men's movements as they tried to encircle their group. Ronon and Teyla braced for action, the blurring forms of reinforcements seconds away from making this a very, very dangerous situation.

Screw sticking around to ask twenty questions; they could come back later. "We'll be leaving now," John stated, letting everyone know to start a retreat before things came to a head.

"I don't think so," Brenon said menacingly.

Before they could raise their weapons, one of the workers grabbed an unsuspecting Keller and aimed a hand gun at her.

Everyone raised their weapons at once, the Marines their rifles, the thugs their hands guns. Ronon had his blaster out, Teyla her knife and John remained cool, not budging from his spot. "Let her go!" he yelled at Brenon. "There's no need for this to turn ugly."

"Please, Colonel. Don't play games with me. I know why you're here. Now tell your people to drop their weapons and kick them away."

Keller's eyes were frantic; she was obviously terrified at having a gun aimed at her, but she wasn't panicking--yet. She gulped and made little sounds of distress, looking to him in both shame and fear for letting one of the brutes get the drop on her.

They could take them, maybe. Then the blobs from behind transformed into four additional men with rifles.

Goody.

John held out his hands. "Fine. Lower your weapons," he ordered everyone.

The Marines reluctantly placed the P-90's on the ground, kicking them away, hands in the air. Ronon laid his weapon on the ground, Teyla her blade. The guys with rifles took their buddies' places at keeping them covered while the six original thugs collected the guns.

One of them patted down Pratt who squawked at the treatment. "I'm not armed, you imbecile."

"Now what?" John asked.

From Brenon's expression it was obvious he hadn't planned that far ahead yet. "I'm still deciding."

The guy threatening Keller let her go and she walked over to one of the benches shakily. Teyla, eying the man near her with disdain, went over and sat down next to the doc. John heard Teyla tell the shaken woman that everything would be okay.

Sitting on the bench seemed an excellent idea and John knew the new adrenaline his heart was pumping through his veins was the only thing keeping him on his feet. "Why'd you do it?"

Brenon's face folded into a heavy scowl. "You... you have it so easy, living in the great city of the Ancestors."

"I don't know what you're--"

"Please don't take me for a fool, Colonel. We all know where you come from. What riches lay at your feet." Brenon stalked over, eyes blazing. "You have so much wealth and knowledge at your fingertips and keep it all to yourselves. Not all of us are primitives… look around at our progress." He stepped closer and reached down to withdraw John's Beretta. "Not all of us are stupid."

Ronon growled, inching closer. Brenon trained the gun on John. "Tell your muscle to back off." To prove his point he undid the safety. "See, I'm not as dumb as I appear."

John gestured for the big guy to stand his ground. "Never said you were."

"Your ruler did, that Prince," Brenon hissed. "All day at dinner, on and on about his superiority, about his money. How much he had, wasting it on lavish plumbing and his grand castles. He flaunted his wealth, stank of his rich perfume and expensive clothes. Like him," Brenon pointed the gun at Pratt. "The House of Red Tape. Is it even grander than the Prince's?"

"I work for... I... no, I'm not a prince. I work with Colonel Sheppard's superiors," Pratt informed him, chin held high.

John wished Pratt would just shut up.

Brenon walked towards the bureaucrat. "Really? You're the Colonel's boss?"

"So, you were just going to grab us? That it?" John asked to distract the man.

"Yes, after dinner. My men waited on you. We were going to grab you and the prince, and let Ms. Emmagan go as a show of good faith and to deliver the message," Brenon boasted. He stared at Teyla. "See? We're not savages."

Brenon sent his steely glare over at Leora. "Then I was betrayed by one of my most trusted workers. She must've overheard my plans. Always lurking in the dark, aren't you, my dear?"

"You brought the jumper down?" Teyla inquired.

Brenon raised an eyebrow. "Don't act so surprised. We all have our secrets."

"I find that hard to believe," Pratt muttered.

The air echoed from a loud smack. The bureaucrat stumbled back from the hard slap, Brenon snarled at him. "You _drenk_! Don't you talk down to me at my own home!"

John barged forward out of instinct, igniting the pain in his belly and jarring his ribs. He doubled over, breathing hard.

Keller jumped up. "Colonel!"

The ground tried to jump up to meet him, but John held back a cry of pain while his vision swam and his head pounded. He sucked in a couple of shaky breaths and forced himself back up, swaying slightly.

Brenon spun around and glared at Keller. "Stay where you are!"

Everyone tensed up. The Marines looked ready to take their chances that a bunch of farmers wouldn't last in hand to hand, but there were too many itchy trigger fingers. The thugs with rifles started forward; Ronon acted ready to take them all on and the guys with hand guns looked around nervously about getting involved in a mini-war.

"I'm...fine," John huffed, trying to defuse things before they exploded.

"No, you're not, Colonel!" Keller hissed. She looked over at Brenon. "If you're not a savage then you'll let him sit down. He's not well."

"I am impressed that you came here, Colonel. I saw them take your ship away in pieces," Brenon said honestly. "It didn't look like anyone could have survived such wreckage. The Ancestors must really be looking out for you."

"If you mean to kidnap and hold people for ransom, why did you try to kill them?"

All eyes went to Richard Pratt who actually took a step closer with his hands raised in supplication.

"I… I didn't think it would happen like that," Brenon defended.

"Really? You didn't think taking down a jumper would hurt anyone?" Pratt scoffed.

Brenon's cheeks went red with anger. "I didn't expect them to make it to the jumper! They left before my men could grab them. I was on my lands when I saw the ship take to the sky."

The bureaucrat smoothed out his tie in a nervous habit. "And you…shot it down?"

John had to give the jerk credit. Pratt actually kept the disbelief to a minimum. John wiped the sweat from his forehead and adjusted his weight. The pain from standing for so long in place was causing his legs to tremble from the strain and a very familiar vice sensation began to throb at his temples.

Teyla and Keller were both sending him those worrisome glances. Ronon kept his eye on all the guns, knowing what had the largest priority and the Marines were silently communicating a plan of action.

_God, where the hell was Rodney?_

Brenon squared his shoulders and cracked his neck. "I come from a long line in my family. For as long as I could remember we acted as guardians for our world. My family and a select few around Dargara had a gift."

"What gift?" John asked.

"To take out the Wraith."

John didn't expect that response. "How?"

Brenon turned to him. "There is something on my land. A great device. It glows when I get near it. I was taught, that should a Wraith ship visit our planet I could activate it."

"What did it do?" Teyla inquired.

"It brought the darts down. Or any Wraith ship that threatened."

Of course. How could they have been that stupid? The technology around here was years beyond most planets. Steam powered ships, mechanical equipment to tend farms. It was right under their noses.

"Tellen and Mina never mentioned this," Teyla said with a frown.

"They probably don't even know," Leora spoke up for the first time. "Many don't even remember the last time the Wraith attacked. The machine is old. It doesn't light up half the time."

"Shut up!" Brenon spat.

Pratt chuckled. "You... you just tried it on the jumper. Didn't you? It was... it was luck that you brought it down?"

John saw Brenon's eyes narrow, his fingers tighten around the trigger while his face twisted in rage. It was now or never. He tapped his earpiece. "Now, Lorne!"

Suddenly a jumper appeared in a shimmer, the craft hovering over the group. Some of the farmhands gasped; a few dropped their guns and ran.

The ones with rifles kept their aim, but exchanged frightened expressions.

"Drop all of your weapons!" John ordered. "If you don't, the jumper will open fire. And your guns won't have an effect on an Ancient ship."

The thugs looked ready to lay down their arms, Ronon and the Marines poised to take over at the right moment.

The past few minutes should have taught John that Brenon was anything but predictable. He grabbed the nearest person to him. And of course, it had to be Pratt. "Back away! Now!"

John held out his hands.

Brenon had his arm around Pratt's chest, keeping him flush to his body, his own gun under the guy's chin. The man actually looked scared.

"Take it easy," John warned. "We can still do this without bloodshed."

Brenon saw that most of his men were about to give up and he began backing away. "I'll kill him if you come near me. We're leaving and you're not going to follow."

Like hell was John going to allow another dignitary get killed on his watch. Asshole or not.

"No! Wait! Take me instead." John stepped forward to everyone's horrified protests.

Pratt gaped at him in shock. Brenon shook his head. "Why?"

"Because Pratt's just a paper pusher. Did you see anyone act like they cared when you threatened him?"

Brenon looked confused, then seemed to think about everyone's less than excited reactions.

"I'm a more important hostage. I'm the military commander. He's a nobody."

"Sheppard, just let him take the asshole," Ronon growled.

"Colonel," Keller warned.

John stepped closer, hand around his middle to support his less than steady movements. He must have looked as bad as he felt because Brenon studied him, waiting until he was closer.

Quicker than John could react to, Pratt was shoved away and Brenon grabbed John by his tac vest with a work gnarled hand and nearly jerked him off his feet. "Fine!"

The world spun and fuzzed out, his hearing filled with a loud buzzing before he realized that Brenon had an arm around his shoulders, using him as a shield. John grunted with the pressure on his middle, a jackhammer taking up its usual place behind his eyes.

"You're going to fly us out of here," Brenon growled.

John wasn't sure if he'd make it to the jumper, but at least everyone else would be safe. "Fine. Let's go."

His team was on their feet, Ronon ready to bolt. Teyla and Keller both looked ready to join them.

The bad guys still had their guns trained on them and their boss.

"I'll come back and pick you all up. Loyal men get rewarded for sticking by me," Brenon promised, backing away with John.

There were only a handful of thugs left, the rest having run off.

Pratt actually took a step towards them. "Wait, we can work something out."

"Anyone takes a step closer and Colonel Sheppard dies." Brenon dug the gun into the back of John's head to make his point.

No one moved. His Marines. His team. Even the asshole was forced to watch them leave. The jumper stayed in the air, Lorne's voice demanding instructions.

Brenon plucked the com out of John's ear. "It's just us now."


	21. Chapter 21

Jennifer could still feel the cold barrel of the crude pistol that had been shoved into her temple. Her fingers ran over the area, surprised when there was nothing there but a dull ache as if a bruise was forming. She was certain it had burned her, left a kiss of frostbite behind.

As she lowered her hand she stared disgustedly at how it shook. She quickly shoved it into her jacket pocket and clenched it until it cramped. Forced her attentions back on the scene in front of her.

Brenon had Colonel Sheppard in a too tight hold around his middle. She could practically hear the still healing bones grating in his ribcage, feel the gut deep pain as his middle was squeezed.

Teyla's arm fell around her shoulders, hugging her firmly. She found herself inching over, closer to the warmth. But when she met Teyla's eyes, she grew cold once more.

While her expression was the usual inscrutable calm Teyla seemed to always show, so much older than her years, her eyes betrayed her. Jennifer saw fear and helplessness in them and she smiled, if only at the small consolation that it mirrored her own.

Ronon stood ten feet away, his eyes pinned on Brenon and the colonel. His back was ramrod straight, his only movement the slow clenching and unclenching of his fist at his side.

The jumper still hovered overhead, all its firepower poised to rain down but forced like Ronon to hold back.

US Marines, the finest fighters on Earth, Ronon and John, two of the bravest and scariest men she'd ever known, and a jumper full of Ancient technology and drones, all held at bay by a man with a single handgun.

And it was all her fault.

She should've been more alert. She should have fought her captor off. She should never have allowed the colonel to trade himself. He was her patient. Someone she'd been charged with caring for, watching over, and she'd fumbled the whole thing so badly. From the beginning. She'd allowed Pratt to get to John in her infirmary. Then, because of that failure, she'd allowed herself to be convinced to let him out way too early. Then she'd been complicit in allowing him this stupid, fricked up mission. He wasn't ready for this, it was obvious. And now he was in the hands of a man who had already admitted he was responsible for the crash. Someone clearly ready and happily willing to kill.

* * *

Lorne's men had their guns at the ready, fingers hovering over the triggers of the P-90's strapped to their vests. As if they could shoot through the hull of the jumper and take down the man holding their CO hostage.

The controls for the jumper under his fingertips, Lorne's concentration held a tenuous connection to the drones ready to be fired. He fought to maintain the control needed while his eyes were burning holes through the windscreen at the scene below.

Colonel Sheppard was too close, his captor using his taller form as the perfect shield. Anything Lorne did would risk his CO's life, and possibly take out the Atlantis team around him. Like dropping dynamite into a pond to catch one fish.

So he and his men were forced to watch as Brenon tore the com from Sheppard's ear and threw it to the ground before pulling him away from the crowd towards the other waiting jumper.

* * *

Ronon took a step forward as Brenon began backing Sheppard away, the Beretta pointed at his friend's temple. The colonel winced when Brenon dug the muzzle in deeper at his advance; Brenon glared, almost daring him to get closer. Ronon froze, recognizing the wild desperate look of a man who had nothing left to lose.

"Ronon," Teyla warned.

There were rifles still pointed at them, nervous fingers of even more anxious, scared men hovering over the triggers. The thugs murmured to one another, eyes scanning for movement, made twitchier by Ronon's own anxiousness. Some of them eyed their boss's retreat warily, Brenon and Sheppard becoming smaller by the second.

"Your boss is leaving you behind. Do not be blinded by greed to the truth." Teyla got to her feet after glancing Ronon's way to make sure he wasn't going to give chase.

Brenon was turning his back on them, forcing Sheppard to do the same. This was his last chance. Ronon's muscles bunched, ready to spring and sprint, fingers aching to pick his weapon up off the ground.

But something stronger made him stand down. Keller's fear and anger. Teyla's fierce outrage. Leora's frightened, tear streaked face. All the Marines ready and willing to go down in a bloody fight.

Brenon's men gave Teyla cold stares; a few knew her words were genuine.

"You really think he's coming back?" Ronon added to stoke the fires of unease.

Sheppard and Brenon were harder to see now, even at their slow, arduous trek. The enemy was time and distance.

"You are outgunned. Surrender now and walk away." Teyla took a step closer to one of the thugs. "Are you really going to risk spilling blood for your boss?"

That really riled things up, spreading doubt and mistrust.

"He hasn't paid us for the last job," one them muttered.

"He crashed us into the rocks last time," someone else added. "His plan was a complete wreck."

Ronon traded looks with Teyla. The jumper loomed menacingly above and a couple of the men peered at it with increased stress.

"We've got new ones now. They might fetch us a pretty prize," a man with disheveled hair and scruffy beard boasted to his gang. "I've got mouths to feed and they look like their bellies have been full for a while."

"Enough groveling with the peasants. Major Lorne, I say blow them all away," Pratt announced with an air of authority he didn't have.

Ronon felt his face flush with anger as all eyes turned on the bureaucrat.

"You heard Colonel Sheppard. I'm his boss and I'm not well liked. You've tested my patience enough for one day. Open fire when I give the word," Pratt declared, straightening to full attention, brushing away dust and dirt from his suit sleeves casually.

Teyla glared at him, and if Keller's eyes could get any wider, they might have popped out of her head.

The loud-mouthed bearded man backed away, craning his neck at the hovering jumper. His fear was contagious and the rest of his crew soon did the same, one of them dropping his rifle and scuttling away quickly.

"Don't shoot!" another cried.

Two more weapons fell to the ground and the Marines wasted no time scooping them up while grabbing their own P-90s.

Pratt's facade cracked, his relief that his bluff worked showing before his normal indifferent expression slipped back into place. He glanced at the others, acting self-assured at his actions until his eyes met Ronon's and all the man's posturing fell away.

In that single second, Ronon sent him a very clear message. If Sheppard died, Pratt died. This whole thing was the IOA man's fault. All of it.

His blaster in his hand, he charged after his CO.

"Ronon, wait!" Keller called after him.

They'd wasted enough time already. Ronon didn't stop. He just couldn't.

"_Ronon, hold on a minute. We're setting down!"_ Lorne's voice yelled in his ear.

_Go! Go! Go! _It was a mantra, the words shouted in his head in time with each pound of his boots on the ground. He tore through one of the crop fields to intercept his quarry. Most of the vegetation was dying but stinging, fibrous husks slapped his bare arms and face as he cut through the rows.

He pumped his legs, smashing the plants under his boots and jumping over holes in the earth before finally breaking through the other side of the field onto the dirt path.

The trail loomed ahead. The jumper was in sight― and still too far away.

The other jumper was in the air, Lorne's voice ordering him to stop. The ship landed in front of him, rear hatch opening and he jumped inside, annoyed that he hadn't been fast enough.

He was still breathing rapidly through his nose in controlled bursts, hand gripping the overhead handles as the jumper took off.

"You should have waited," Lorne snapped.

The others were inside, Keller tightly gripping her medical bag in frustration and worry. Teyla held her injured arm to her chest; her face was flushed from stress and exertion.

The Marines already on the ground must have stayed to secure things; the ones inside sported fresh but agitated faces.

And Pratt… Pratt was huddled at the end of the bench, staring at his hands curled in his lap. Ronon didn't waste effort with the asshole as he looked over at the view screen, perched in the back, ready to leap out once they touched down.

"They're inside the jumper!" Lorne yelled over his shoulder.

All of them leaned forward as the Major headed for a spot right next to the craft.

Ronon waited to land, darted a look at his remaining teammates. Teyla's lips were set tight with pain and worry. And Keller seemed just as intent to run out, obviously concerned about Sheppard's fragile health.

"Damn it!"

All heads whipped over as Lorne engaged evasive maneuvers.

"The jumper's taking off!"

There was a string of curses, Ronon's blood boiling over with them. It wasn't like they could shoot it down.

And they were all forced to sit back and watch it take off over the Barrens, following close behind, but still out of reach.

* * *

"How long until they realize you're abandoning them?" John asked.

"What? The men?" Brenon laughed harshly. "They are more muscle than brain. We will be long gone through the Ring before they realize it."

"And that's how you treat men who have been loyal to you?"

"Loyal… you give them too much credit, Sheppard. I pay them a wage, more than they could earn in the fields or hauling fishing nets. Without money there is no loyalty."

John reflected back on the devastated crops they'd walked through… the comment Leora had made about Brenon not being able to afford a house servant any longer… Realization dawned on him with a start.

"That's it, isn't it? You've run outa money," John said with a smirk. The comment got him shoved in the small of his back with his own Beretta. Not for the first time, and probably not for the last, John cursed his weak physical condition.

Brenon wasn't a particularly formidable opponent. He had old muscle gone to fat, and no discernable skill with the gun other than keeping it pinned squarely in the middle of John's back. Any other man would have been easily disarmed and subdued with a rapid spin, the gun arm deflected with a quick, painfully paralyzing chop, and a chokehold around the neck. He'd done it a hundred times. But never with a freshly healing, sixteen inch incision, a bum hip and head trauma. He figured no matter what was in the shot Keller had stuck him with, his first attempt at a leg sweep would have him collapsing like a badly built house of cards.

But he still had a potent arsenal if he could just concentrate long enough to use it.

He recovered from the stumble the shove caused, then grinned bigger; even if Brenon couldn't see it from behind him, John knew it would carry in his voice. "You're broke!" he taunted. "The storms have wiped you out."

"For this season, yes, came a curt reply. But I still have my herds of _bovena--"_

"Yeah? Whatcha gonna feed them?"

"And my fine estate," Brenon continued, his voice getting angrier and louder.

"Tough to keep up a 'fine estate' when you can't afford to pay your workers, I'd imagine."

The silence spoke volumes.

"You know, I still don't get what the big plan was. Take down the jumper and ransom the bloody smears left behind after we crashed? Not exactly a big moneymaker…"

He got another shove, harder this time. As he recovered his bad hip twisted and a familiar pain flared there, overriding the numbness. "Just an observation," he bit out through clenched teeth.

Clearly this guy hadn't ever seen American movies where the Bad Guy gleefully shares every detail of his plan while holding the hero at gunpoint.

"Seriously," he tried again. "I'm trying to understand. You crash the jumper -- the _airboat_-- and then what? What made you think this was gonna solve your financial predicament?"

"The prince… Your people would have paid for his return."

"Depends on what people you're talking about, Brenon," John chuckled. "Most would've paid you to keep him. But okay…following that line of thought… you down the ship, hope that we aren't plastered all over the inside, and then what?"

"You talk too much, Sheppard."

The jumper was in view, a football field away. John knew his craft, inside and out, every nook and cranny, every circuit, every part, every piece of equipment. He knew there were two Glocks, several sticks of C-4, two grenades and extra ammo cartridges in an armory hidden behind a panel. The radio could be activated at the console and from the back. There was a fire axe clipped to the wall on the starboard side and a med kit with injectors pre-filled with morphine on the port.

"Just conversation," John said calmly. "Road trips get pretty boring without it. Speaking of, any idea where we're headed?"

"You don't need to know, Sheppard. Just keep moving."

"You do have an idea, right? Unless you want to start dialing gate addresses at random and hope we don't end up in the middle of a Wraith culling or an ice age, or a volcanic eruption -- OW!"

The barrel of the gun dug painfully into the back of his head.

"Keep. Moving."

"Yeah, I get that." He raised a hand cautiously to rub at the sore spot. His fingers came back stained with blood. "Jeez! Take it easy!"

"Your value to me diminishes with every word you speak, Sheppard. Once we were through the Ring I had considered ransoming your life. But it is not a certainty. Bear that in mind before opening your mouth again."

Thankfully John was spared the temptation of a witty comeback by their arrival at the jumper.

"Open it."

"Sorry… lost the keys."

The blow on the back of his head dropped him to his knees. The new lightweight glasses slipped off his face and fell to the ground. His vision blurred, the grass beneath his knees smearing into a swath of fuzzy green. He felt bile rise in his throat and he swallowed rapidly, his eyes squeezed tight against the nausea and the hatchet seemingly buried in the back of his skull.

"Open it," came Brenon's cold voice, filtering through the high-pitched ringing in his ears.

"Forgot… the… combination."

That got him a boot in his side. Where his ribs had only begun to start knitting together.

He vomited once, twice. The third time was the charm that had him on the verge of blacking out. He fell face forward into the cool grass, a rock digging painfully into his cheek but he didn't even have the strength to lift his head. His breathing was raspy and harsh in his ears and he flinched as he felt the toe of Brenon's boot prod his tender flank.

"Don't make me tell you again, Sheppard."

With a thought John unlatched the hatch.

"Very good, Sheppard. Now get up."

_Right. _Working on that, John thought while his body ignored him completely_. I am so screwed._

* * *

Brenon was finally forced to bodily haul John to his feet. The gun pressed into the small of his back under the vest, the Dargaran's other hand fisted the hair at the back of John's head, twisting painfully until John had no choice but to rise or have his scalp pulled from his skull.

Bent at the waist, gasping for breath with deep, pain-filled gulps of air, John limped forward a step before almost folding again. His already blurred vision was further hampered by tears the vomiting and hair yanking had wrested from his eyes. They streamed freely down his cheeks and lips making each breath a spluttered spray of saline and spit.

"This is the military leader of the great city of the Ancestors?" Brenon laughed harshly. "Where's your fight, Sheppard?"

With his free hand he shoved, hard. John lurched forward, fell onto his knees on the open ramp before Brenon planted a foot on his ass and pushed him back to his feet and into the jumper.

Reaching out a hand to support himself, John felt his fingers brush over the panel that hid the armory. He could almost feel the sold steel of the Glock's grip, smell the plastic of the C-4. But a prod at his back with his Beretta had him stumbling forward again, past the fire axe, past the med kit.

He fell heavily into the pilot's seat, groaning with pain at the impact of his body with the seat and relief that he was no longer trying to stand upright. Each breath was a white-hot knife in his side and the short, shallow gasps couldn't bring in enough oxygen to fight off the grey that tunneled his vision.

Brenon took the co-pilot seat, his eyes lingering greedily over the control panel. His hand reached out and the console lit up beneath his fingers.

"Everybody thinks they're a pilot," John muttered. "One gene in a hundred thousand does not a pilot make."

The Dargaran waved the Beretta at him. "You will show me how to captain this vessel."

John laughed, holding his hand against his aching side. "McKay's a genius and he still can't fly this thing worth a darn. Sorry to break it to you, pal, but this isn't steam powered."

"You think me stupid. Backward. I can control the Ancestors' machine; I can steer this airboat."

"Hey, you wanna try, have at it. Be nice to be the one chauffeured for a change."

Brenon glared, held the gun pointed at John while he dashed glances at the console covered in Ancient. His fingers pressed some of the patterns and the lights flashed on and off and he even managed, clearly by accident, to get the rear hatch to close. But the engines stayed quiet.

With a final grunt of displeasure he stabbed the gun in John's direction. "Start the ship."

"Well, since you asked nicely," John drawled. He danced his hands over the panel in front of him, but as he'd noted, flying the jumper really was mental over visual. Which was fortunate as his vision was completely frakked up. He closed his eyes and thought on the engines as his hands continued their random movements. There was no reason to let Brenon know that he could control the thing with a thought…

Next came the bass hum of the inertial dampeners kicking in. The jumper lifted a few feet off the ground and hovered, waiting for direction. It all felt so natural yet so new after so long without flying. Had the situation not been so fubar'd he would have reveled in the experience.

The barrel shook at him. "Why do you delay? Make it go!"

"Go where? I can't 'steer the ship' without a course, Cappy B."

"To the Ring, Sheppard. I will supply our destination when we get there."

"Suit yourself," John bit out. "So _not_ going back for your men, then?"

The Beretta poked meaningfully in his direction was the only rejoinder. "Right. Gotcha."

The jumper lifted off and John pointed them towards the gate.

* * *

They were cruising at an altitude a thousand feet above the planet's surface. High enough to avoid the trees that covered the largest of the hills that ringed the Barrens.

John'd deliberately stayed low, their angle broad and their speed slow so as to delay their arrival at the gate. Brenon clearly had no idea of the jumper's true capabilities, and seemed comfortable with the time it was taking. Since the planet's travelers only had a choice of foot, burden animal or boat for their journeys, this was probably the only experience the Dargaran had to measure against. Thankfully.

Shifting painfully in his seat, John tried for a more comfortable position. One had was wrapped around his middle, bracing his ribs and side. He'd managed to find a breathing rhythm that got him the most oxygen with the least pain, pressing hard against his ribs with numb fingers with every inhale.

With a thought he nudged the jumper higher, adjusted their course more westerly. His thoughts strayed back to his people below. He had every confidence that Ronon and Lorne would take care of the rest, but the rifles Brenon's men had brandished could still do damage. There could be casualties. If they could just go back, fly overhead to make sure his people were okay…

"What fool do you take me for, Sheppard?"

John started, rubbed at his tired, blurry eyes and looked to his right. Brenon had the gun pointed at his head, his face a smeary mask of fury.

"What?"

With his free hand the Dargaran pointed through the windscreen at the planet below. "That river! It runs behind my lands. You have turned the craft around!"

At a mental nudge the HUD came up and John squinted, checking their coordinates. They had veered off course and were headed back to where they started. The jumper had taken his unconscious thoughts and followed the unspoken direction given.

"From above all rivers look the same," John said calmly while urging the craft to speed up. So close, he could check on his people. People that were only there because of him. That were in trouble because of another of his mistakes, his brash, stupid plans. If he knew they were okay he could--

The gun was literally deafening in the small craft, the smell of spent gunpowder chokingly acrid. Sparks flew from the gaping hole in the panel behind John's head.

"Jesus!" John yelled, ducking away from the hot embers. "Are you crazy? You could breech the hull!"

"You said our weapons would not work against your craft," Brenon said smugly. "The next shot will not miss you. Turn the craft about and head for the gate."

"You shoot me in the head and neither of us will make it to the gate, asshole," John growled.

The gun lowered to point at his knee. "You do not need your legs to pilot this craft. But I would imagine the pain would be… excruciating."

At this close distance, even if the man was unfamiliar with the Beretta, John knew he wouldn't likely miss. He thought the HUD up, let it flicker into view long enough to see their coordinates, then turned the jumper back on course. While the display was up, John noted with a start of relief that Lorne's jumper was behind them. He knew there was no way his 2IC would have left with the situation on the ground not well in hand. His people would be alright. Whatever came from this point on, it was only him paying the price for his fuckup. Which is the way it should be. Should have been all along.

* * *

The gate was only a few clicks ahead now. Despite the scrubbers, the air in the cockpit still stank of sulfur and chemical fire suppressant. The strong smells just added to the throbbing headache and the roil of nausea in John's belly. His throat itched with the need to cough; the one and only time he'd done so, the pain in his gut and ribs had been so overwhelming he'd almost passed out.

It was now or never time. There was no way he could allow Brenon through the gate with the jumper. The first thing the man would do would be to sell it, and this technology couldn't fall into the wrong hands.

He had no weapon. He was barely holding on, pain and exhaustion dragging him further down with each passing minute. He contemplated burying the jumper in the side of a hill but he wasn't that fatalistic…yet.

He was a pilot. The only thing he'd always been good at. It had gotten him out of his father's home. It had taken him to places he'd only dreamed about on Earth. Heck, it had taken him to another galaxy… where he'd discovered something even more unimaginable. A family. A pilot he was seemingly born, and a pilot he would die.

He nudged the jumper higher, faster. They climbed until the sky darkened and the planet's surface dropped away.

Brenon growled out his name, long and low. "What are you doing?" The gun was raised back into place. "What do you think you are doing?"

The jumper went higher yet, through the clouds, higher yet. Stars peeked out around them but John just nudged the little craft higher still.

"Bring this boat back down or I will kill you where you sit, Sheppard!" Brenon shouted, his face red, his eyes bugging out of his head.

John knew he wouldn't. Couldn't risk killing him at this altitude… he smiled. A true smile. This was where he belonged, where he could do only right. The crash wasn't his fault; he could console himself with that and his peoples' safety as his last thought if it came to that.

But he wasn't ready to go down without a fight. Like he'd told Keller, he wasn't a quitter.

Reluctantly removing his arm from around his middle, he dropped his left hand down next to his seat. As his fingers brushed cold metal he whispered a silent prayer of thanks for little Czech scientists and pulled the mesh fabric belt across his lap, clicking into place at his right side.

With a little goose of glee, he glanced over at Brenon with an evil smile and a phrase he felt worthy of John McLane. "Buckle up for safety, pal!"

The Dargaran's eyes went cartoon wide as his eyes dropped to the seat belt John now wore, thanks to Radek's 'modifications.'

Then John thought the dampeners OFF and slammed the jumper hard to port.

Two things happened simultaneously.

Brenon fell out of his chair, slammed into John, bounced off and continued headlong into the left wall of the jumper.

And John let out a guttural scream. The seatbelt held him firmly in place, but the sharp-edged fabric was like a garrote around his middle; it cut into his tender belly like a hot knife through butter.

Gasping for breath, stars forming in his vision, he envisioned a dart on their tail and swerved hard to starboard. Brenon's limp body flew into the opposite wall to land in a boneless heap.

Half-laughing, half-sobbing, John slumped in his chair. The windscreen showed the cloud layer as they passed through, the dark green of the vast forests, a thread of blue a river below. But pain and exhaustion was blotting out any remaining control he had over the jumper. The grey tunnel was back, getting darker by the minute.

He dropped his head back, his lips moving with silent goodbyes. Prayers for the futures of all those he loved. Regrets that he'd never patched things up with his father. That he wouldn't live to see Teyla's son be born.

Then the jumper went dark. Every light on every panel. He chuckled at the irony. From this height there'd be no second chances. He closed his eyes and waited for the end.

It was only seconds later that he felt the jumper slow in its descent. And seconds after that the jumper touched down with barely a bump.

After a few breaths, waiting for…what? Was it a dream? A defense his mind devised when greeted with the inconceivable? Was there still the final impact to usher him into oblivion?

He lifted a shaky hand and popped the belt free. The release was almost orgasmic and he let out a long, low groan of relief. He fell from the chair, landed hard on his knees, then pulled himself up to stagger, hunched in half, over to where Brenon's body still lay. He prodded the Dargaran with a boot, then looked for the gun.

Squinting hard, he scanned the murky darkness of the cockpit. His head pounded harder, but he rubbed at his eyes, forced himself to focus. There! He could see the grip, wedged under the co-pilot seat. But when he bent over to pull it free he almost blacked out again. It was stuck; his fingers scratched fruitlessly on the smooth metal and the bent over position was excruciating. He used the wall for support as he stood as straight as he could. He stopped only to kick the Dargaran harder, with a little satisfaction, then eased his way to the back, one hand trailing the wall as he went.

The hatch opened with a hand waved over the control. Fresh clean air, a swath of green grass surrounded by thick forest. Birds twittered madly in a nearby tree, clearly upset and offended by the giant metal intruder in their midst.

Lorne's jumper hove into view above the trees and he gave a short wave of acknowledgment. Bracing his hand against the side of the opening, John lowered himself slowly onto the ramp and leaned against the doorway to wait for his ride.

It was a sound that saved his life. The clunk of a boot on the metal jumper floor.

He whipped around to see Brenon behind him, the fire axe raised above his head, and madness in his eyes. Blood trickled down the corner of his mouth and out of one ear. With a bellowed cry he attacked.

John ducked, felt the whoosh of air as the axe whizzed over his head, then rolled down the ramp to land with a grunt at the bottom. Brenon leapt from the ramp, brought the axe around and slammed it down hard.

The blade dug into the ground next to John's arm as he rolled free once more. He kicked his leg out, thankful for Keller and her magic potion, and connected with Brenon's knee.

The Dargaran's leg gave out and he went down hard. It took him but a second though to clamber to his knees, shake his head clear. He sprang from his knees, launched himself through the air, the axe still tight in his hand.

John drew up his legs, caught man mid-leap, and kicked - hard enough to fling the man off to the side. He crabbed backwards as Brenon roared and came back at him, swinging wildly with the axe.

The blade caught John's thigh, drew a white hot line of fire across the top.

Damn it! He needed to get up, off the ground where he had no defense, barely any offense. The axe came swinging his way again but John grabbed on to the Dargaran's arm, deflected the blade and used the stronger man to pull himself up.

Half attack move, half collapse, John dug his legs in, shoved his weight against the man and propelled them both to the ground. As they landed, John crooked his arm and dropped his weight squarely onto Brenon's solar plexus.

Greeted with a satisfying _oof_ and the sight of Brenon, eyes bulging, gasping for air, John rolled off of him and sprawled out, completely spent.

The sky overhead was clear and blue. The grass underneath was cool and green.

There was the whistling scream of a blaster and the sound of a body thudding to the ground, but John didn't move. There was the vibration of footfalls in large number shaking the ground underneath him. And he still didn't move. He heard his name being shouted and the birds now screeching from somewhere above.

It wasn't until he saw a smiling face blot out the sky that he finally raised a finger from the cool green grass and whispered, "Hey, Ronon."

* * *

The team could only watch as Sheppard's jumper soared upwards and went out of view behind the clouds. Lorne quickly brought the HUD up so they could follow his position.

There was a collective gasp as, still ascending, and without warning, the jumper jerked hard to the left, falling as it went. Then it suddenly pulled into a ninety-degree turn at breakneck speed to the right. The craft continued its descent, back through the clouds, no apparent attempt being made to stop it.

There was nothing those on Lorne's jumper could do but watch their friend crash right before their eyes.

Barely a few hundred feet from the ground, the jumper shockingly righted itself, gliding down almost majestically to land on a small patch of grass surrounded by trees.

"Gonna land as close as I can," Lorne said tensely, scanning the heavily forested area for another clearing. He saw Sheppard emerge from the back and give a half-hearted wave.

"He's alive," Teyla sighed, slumping back in her chair and smiling at Keller.

"Barely, by the looks of things," the doc commented, concern clear on her face.

Ronon ignored the chatter, waited with his hand on the hatch release. He was out like a shot as they touched the ground, running at breakneck speed, knowing the erratic movements in the air were signs of a struggle inside. The jumper was hundreds of meters away, the woods a blur of brown and green, birds taking to the sky in droves at their presence.

The hatch was open.

Ronon grunted, legs muscles straining as he pounded across the grass. He was so close and kicked things into overdrive at seeing a form sprawled motionless on the ground.

It was Sheppard. Before he dared a sigh of relief, a crazed figure emerged from behind the fallen man, sunlight glinting off something metal in his hand. Ronon pulled out his blaster without hesitation and fired.

The body slumped to the ground, what he finally saw as an axe along with it. Ronon screeched to a stop, chest heaving but with a manic grin. Sheppard was alive and breathing.

The ground crunched with a stampede of boots and feet behind him. He shook his head at Sheppard's greeting, then looked over at the two Marines standing nearby. "Might want to secure that piece of _drenk,_" he growled, pointing at Brenon.

Then he dropped into a crouch next to his friend, his adrenaline high crashing down. "Sheppard," he breathed, placing a hand on his CO's shoulder. "That was so stupid."

"Yeah…" Sheppard, said breathlessly, grimacing.

He noticed his friend's ashen complexion, the blood seeping from his BDUs and the rapid rise and fall of his chest. Ronon whirled around, anger and concern lacing his yell for help, only to see Keller hustling over, bag slung over her shoulder.

"Give me room," she ordered. It was amazing to see the doc's transformation from timid to completely in charge.

Teyla was behind the physician; her eyes met Ronon's briefly before focusing on Sheppard.

Lorne made his way over, updating their people at the estate on his com while the rest of the Marines secured the area. Pratt was right behind the Major and for the very first time, his smug expression was gone, replaced by bewilderment. He kept getting in the way of the others rushing about and wandered over, confused.

"How is he?" the bureaucrat asked, peering over Sheppard's sprawled form.

Teyla's hand on his shoulder was the only thing keeping Ronon from tearing the guy limb from limb.

"This is not the time," Teyla reasoned, steering him away from the IOA man with a firm grip.

Ronon wouldn't waste his time on the asshole—for now. He turned his attention towards Keller as she tended to Sheppard.

The physician had a BP cuff wrapped around the pilot's arm, stethoscope slung around her neck. "Colonel, where else does it hurt?" she asked as she popped the earpieces into place.

She already had the leg of his BDUs split to the belt with a pressure bandage secured over a wound on his thigh.

"Colonel? John? Stay awake for me," Keller urged when she got no answer, hands on both sides of his face. "Where is the pain?"

Sheppard groaned, eyes struggling to stay open. "Stomach... seatbelt...seatbelt took a bite...outa me."

She slit open his t-shirt with scissors to expose his chest and his scarred belly. She'd barely placed her hands on him when Sheppard stiffened, writhing in pain.

"Sorry, sorry," Keller apologized, eyes wide in alarm. "Anywhere else?"

"Ribs... Got...got kicked in 'em," Sheppard panted.

Two weeks of frustration erupted and Ronon spun around to see the Marines hauling Brenon away. He took five long strides and slugged the Dargaran in the face; the man's head snapped back and he slumped unconscious.

"Sir!" one of the Marines warned as Ronon pulled back his fist once again.

"That's enough," Lorne ordered, stepping over. "We need him to be able to talk." He rested an understanding hand on Ronon's shoulder. "He can't do that if you break his jaw, can he?"

Ronon spun back to check on Sheppard, his vision growing red as Pratt took an opportunity to slip by him once again.

It was Teyla again who stepped forward, blocking his path. "You must remain calm. You will do no one any good if you get put in the brig."

He was sick of playing by the rules while everyone else broke them. He walked around his teammate, still fully pissed but slightly less murderous.

Pratt hovered by while Keller got Sheppard ready to be moved. The bureaucrat ignored the evil glares from the Marines and Lorne, who looked ready to drag the guy away.

"I don't understand. You got vindicated. There was no need to play the he --" Pratt cleared his throat. "I mean, you didn't have to exchange yourself for me." The man stood taller, regaining more confidence as the shock wore away.

"Not now," Keller hissed, finishing a final check of the IV. "Colonel Sheppard doesn't have to answer your questions now... or ever," she added.

"No," Sheppard croaked as he struggled for breath. He grabbed Keller's arm when she began protesting and looked up at the bureaucrat. "I... I was in charge... of this mission." He breathed shallowly, quickly losing the battle to remain awake. "Everyone was... was my responsibility."

"Colonel," Keller warned.

Sheppard squeezed his eyes shut in pain. "It's my job." He took the time to make eye contact with Lorne, Teyla, Keller and Ronon. "And... it... always will be."

Pratt humphed, reverting back to his old self. "I see."

"We need to go now," Keller said urgently.

Ronon and Lorne went over together. The major took the lanky legs and Ronon handled the pilot's upper body, quickly transporting their CO to the jumper. Ronon could have handled it himself but didn't want to risk squishing the other man.

Sheppard didn't protest since moving sent him into unconsciousness. Keller followed closely behind, holding the IV and securing an oxygen mask in place.

They all piled in, Lorne taking care of the last of the instructions when Teyla looked around. "Where is Rodney?" she asked worriedly

"I'll locate his transponder and pick him up," Lorne grunted as they entered the jumper. "I'd love to know what the hell he's been doing."

His words were harsh but the look he gave Ronon spoke volumes.

The Satedan sat back to watch as Keller continued her ministrations for Sheppard. He reached over and picked up Teyla's hand, gave her a small smile when she squeezed back. "I'm sure McKay's fine. They'll both be alright."


	22. Chapter 22

--

When John next awakened the soft grass had been replaced by the cold jumper floor. Keller was kneeling at his side, her fingers holding his wrist. She gave him a comforting, if a little tightly held, smile. "We're almost home, Colonel," she said quietly.

He nodded, too tired to force words past the oxygen mask that covered his mouth and nose. He squinted, trying to make out the faces that surrounded him. Ronon's dreads and Teyla's sling made them easy to make out, and the Marines were a solid block of black: guns, helmets, vests and BDUs. Pratt was there, no missing the suit and tie with white shirt. His heartbeat quickened as he realized Rodney wasn't among them and raised a hand to pull the mask off his face. Keller stopped him, laid his hand back down and bent over him, bringing her face in closer. Not understanding the reason for his agitation she gazed at him with concern. "Is the pain worse, Colonel?"

It was, but he shook his head fretfully. It wasn't what he wanted to tell her but his lips could only form unspoken words hidden by the green plastic.

"We're almost home," Keller consoled again while she rubbed his arm slowly. "Just a quick stop first."

He fell back into darkness to the sound of Lorne shouting, "Dr. McKay, do you read me?"

* * *

Cold jumper floor was marginally softer infirmary bed the next time his eyes opened. He winced as the bright lights hit his eyes. He blinked rapidly, squinting and turning his head on the pillow. A hand crossed his vision and the light was knocked off to the side and he sighed with relief, allowing his eyes to relax enough to peer around.

"Get that scanner up and running, people!" came Keller's voice from behind him.

"Dr Keller!" There was no mistaking the southern drawl, and had there been any doubt, Lt Harrison's face hovered into view. "You hangin' in there, sir?" she asked softly.

He nodded, tried to move but was brought up short by the knife in his gut.

"Wouldn't recommend that, Colonel," Keller said with a sad smile as she walked up next to Harrison. "Just relax and we'll get you sorted out." She turned and murmured, "Cadence, could you stay here while I have the team ready theater one, just in case?"

"Of course, Doctor."

John reached out a hand and stopped Keller as she started to rush away. He stared plaintively at her, not caring if his fear was exposed.

Keller took his hand, gave it a squeeze before laying it back down. "I think you may have re-injured your liver, Colonel," she explained calmly. "Your blood pressure is up which is a sign of internal bleeding. But it's not too bad I can't check things out with the scanner first. If you have, I'll just go back in and fix you up, good as before, okay?"

No… no, it wasn't okay - he couldn't do it again. Just the thought of more surgery, ripping him back open a third time… The pain, the debilitation… He still wasn't fully healed from the last time. He shook his head restlessly, grabbed the corner of her uniform top in a shaky hand.

Keller gently removed his fingers from their weak grip on the fabric. Patted his shoulder but he got no comfort from it. "I promise we'll take good care of you, John," she soothed, still misunderstanding him, adding to his distress.

She left him with another pat on his shoulder. John rolled his head on his pillow, anger and fear battling in his head. Hot tears of frustration leaked from the corners of his squeezed shut eyes. He felt a soft cloth dabbing them away as he slipped back out of awareness.

* * *

Awakening was slower this time. Softer and mellower, his conscious thoughts swathed in layers of filmy gauze. He was content to lay there, swaddled in a cocoon of warmth and comfort. No light pierced his eyelids, no nausea tied his guts in knots, no knife dug a trench through his middle. He smiled as thoughts of Pink Floyd floated by on an ethereal cloud.

"I take it that means the pain meds are working?" came Keller's amused sounding voice.

He could barely put forth the energy to sigh out an "mmm hmmmmm."

She snorted good-naturedly, then he felt his wrist picked up and held. His hand felt like it weighed a hundred pounds and he wondered dazedly how she was managing to hold it up.

"I do believe this is the most even keeled we've had you in weeks. Score one for Friedrich Sertürner."

Okay… he knew he was more than a little fuzzy, but …. "Whosat?" he managed to croak out.

"The inventor of morphine," Keller chuckled. "And apparently your new hero."

The blanket got pulled back and cold air snaked over his exposed flesh, tearing away another layer of fog. Then fingers started pawing at his stomach, igniting fires in their path.

But small fires, he realized slowly. Not post surgery, hacked open and darned back together blazing inferno pain. He blinked his eyes open, lifted his hundred pound hand and placed it tentatively on his middle. The old, scabby bumpy scar was still there. He looked up to see Keller smirking at him as she moved his hand away and covered him back up.

"You do have a bleed," she said calmly, "but I'm keeping an eye on it. I think with bed rest it will heal up on its own. No surgery for now, okay?"

"Yeah, okay," he smiled back. "If you… insist…"

"I do," she answered firmly. She looked warmly at him, tugged the blanket up a bit more onto his chest. "I'm tough like that."

There was a derisive snort from somewhere off to the side. John turned his head to see a massive shadow on the curtain. As he watched it broke into three distinct forms, and one had really big hair.

"I heard that, McKay!" Keller replied to the curtain. The fabric pulled back and Rodney stepped in, followed by Ronon and Teyla. "And I guess that was an invitation in," Keller continued dryly. She eyed John up doubtfully. "You up for visitors?"

"Thanks to Freddie Whasisiname, I'm up for pretty much anything," John said sloppily.

"Oh, _this _should be a fun conversation," Rodney snarked. "Jeez, Keller, what did you use, a horse tranquilizer on him?"

She slapped Rodney affectionately on the arm as she passed by. "Not too long, guys. Not that I think he'll last that long anyways…"

She closed the curtain as the team settled into the room, Teyla being granted the chair while Ronon took the end of the bed. Rodney appeared intrigued by a blinking monitor but it was clear that he was barely containing himself, flicking his finger at switches and tapping the screen.

"What'd I miss?" John asked for expediency's sake.

"We turned Brenon over to the Dargaran Council," Ronon grunted with a scowl. "Carter insisted."

"It is only right that his people address his crimes in their way, Ronon," Teyla said diplomatically. "Would you have him sit in our brig indefinitely?"

"Yeah. For starters."

"Ronon, we have no formal trial system here on Atlantis."

"Don't need a trial. We know what he did. Sheppard's proof enough." A feral grin spread on his face. "Bet the prince's family would pay to get their hands on him."

"The Dargarans are some of our staunchest allies, Ronon. Tellen assures me that he will receive the harshest of punishments for his actions."

"That would be their form of gibbeting," Rodney chimed in with a harsh laugh. "I uh, did some research on it. Of course they put their own um, twist on things, so to speak. The uh, criminal is enclosed in a small cage and hung out at the low tide mark. The tide comes in and… well. Then they evidently leave the uh, remains in the cage for people to… well, it's considered a crime deterrent."

Ronon raised his eyebrows and nodded, clearly impressed. "That'll do. How 'bout it, Sheppard? That do it for you?"

John frowned and rubbed a hand over his ribs at the ache starting to break through the morphine there. But he didn't have an answer.

"It's -- it's barbaric!" Rodney spluttered. "I'm sorry, but jeez, in Canada we don't even have capital punishment. I know they're still stuck in the Industrial Revolution as Zelenka keeps reminding me but still…" He sagged a little where he stood, then shrugged. "For what it's worth, I don't think Brenon meant to kill you guys when he crashed the jumper."

"He meant to kill Sheppard!" Ronon growled, standing from the bed. "You didn't see it, McKay, but take a look what a near miss did!" He pointed at the bed and John struggled to raise his head and see what the big man was pointing at. He squinted woozily and saw that his left leg was raised on pillows, his entire thigh covered in layers of gauze where even now blood was soaking through in places.

He dropped his head back down tiredly and grimaced. "Wanted to use that axe," he muttered mostly to himself. He sighed, losing another layer of comfort as more pains awakened and more memories from that day came back. "What happened to you, Rodney? You were gone, and I…" He licked his dry lips and sucked air through the plastic at his nose. "You were gone," he repeated lamely.

"Yes, well, it turns out it's rather good that I left when I did. You guys were doing the beating on your chests thing which I figured you could handle, and I… couldn't. And I caught that reading that we found before, the naquadah sign?"

His voice grew more animated and John struggled to keep up and alert.

"So I, uh, followed the clues, right? I mean, that's why we were there, right? And I found a… come on, all together now, folks…. That's right, an underground bunker. I think every time we visit a planet that's progressed beyond fire we should immediately have a ground sonar detection unit go over every square meter if it… Anyways, the bunker? Ancient equipment!" he crowed. "Found a, um, well, something similar to a Mark I generator running it. It's um, almost depleted, but I think we could spare some naquadah to get it back up and running for them, after all they are--"

"Rodney!" John broke in, more roughly than he'd meant to.

"Sorry… well, the equipment was in total disrepair. Crystals burnt out. Anyway, I puttered a bit, got it up and humming along. Something like a HUD popped up, showed the position of your jumpers. You performed some really neat but incredibly stupid aerobatics and then… well … I saw it falling so I um, stopped it."

"You stopped the jumper?" John asked incredulously. "_You_ stopped the jumper?"

"Mm hm," Rodney confirmed with a little smugness.

"Rodney… I…" John thought back on the plummeting jumper, the goodbyes he'd made… then the way the craft had been settled so gently on the ground. He smiled and locked eyes with the physicist. "Your landing? Perfect."

Rodney blushed and looked away before returning the smile. "Where's Zelenka around when you need him? He always complains about my landings."

Teyla reached out and squeezed Rodney's hand affectionately before turning back to John. "Tellen and Mina met with the Council and they confirmed, there are stations scattered about the planet. They were left to protect the planet from the Wraith, but it has been so long since they were last culled, the knowledge of how to work the machines was lost over generations."

"Brenon had no idea how the thing worked," Rodney commented. "And even if he did, the machinery was so broken down, it would've been hit or miss. It's really quite ingenious. I imagine the original idea was to um, superimpose the will of the one manning the machine over the darts as they came through. They couldn't necessarily get them all, but they could then turn the controlled darts against the others. Pretty cool, really."

"Cool," John agreed as his eyes began to drift shut. He blinked them back open, struggling to stay awake; there were still so many questions…

"Any casualties?" he asked Ronon.

"Just you," the big man huffed. "And I think Pratt mighta gotten a little roughed up."

"Ronon, you --" He tried sitting up but Teyla placed a gentle hand on his chest and calmed him with a sharp look at her teammate.

"He is fine, John. Ronon thinks he is funny. Mr. Pratt was untouched and remains here on Atlantis while he finishes his _report_." She uttered the last word as if it left a bad taste in her mouth.

"I think systems might just be up and running again," Rodney smirked cheerfully. "His report should now go out right on time…"

"What? What was wrong with our systems?" John asked, concern once again stirring him to action.

Rodney just waggled his eyebrows and bounced on his tiptoes. "Hmm… let's see… Wraith virus, porn… oh, and mice."

It had to be the morphine. Next thing pink elephants would start a conga line though his room. Before he could even begin to address the crazy things Rodney had said, Keller came bustling back in.

"Okay, kids. Time's up. The colonel needs sleep and you all need to grab some food and shuteye yourselves. How's the hand, Rodney?"

As if realizing for the first time that it was still bandage covered, Rodney raised his hand and stared at it. "Huh." His face wrinkled and he moved the fingers slowly as if they pained him. "Actually, it is starting to hurt a little. I had to work on the machine to save Sheppard's life, you know."

"We know, Rodney," Teyla said fondly as she rose from the chair. "Let's see if a brownie sundae doesn't make it feel better."

She began gently prodding Rodney out as she glanced back at John. "Sleep well, John. We will visit again soon."

"Yeah, feel better Sheppard," Ronon said as he rose.

"Thanks, guys," John said sleepily. "Not sure why she's chasing you out. I…" His last words were swallowed by a giant yawn and he heard Keller's voice next to him at the same time he felt a tug on his IV. "You'll have plenty of time for visits, Colonel. When I say bed rest, I mean just that. No early dismissals this time…"

"Not in any hurry," John mumbled. He was comfortable right where he was. For now.

* * *

It turned out that bed rest was code for utter boredom. It wasn't like he'd been awake for most of the previous two days; it seemed like he'd wake up long enough to get sleepy and fall back asleep. It was the whole: _been here, done that, got the t-shirt _feeling of being grounded. Again. And now on the third day he was feeling antsy.

"You know, sighin' isn't gonna get you sprung any sooner, sir," Harrison said, breezing in to change his bag of saline. "Although, I guess sighin' is better than growlin'."

Whoops. Yeah. The past few weeks had not been some of his prouder moments. "About that," John squirmed, shoving his old glasses back up. Damn, but he was ticked he'd lost the new ones on the planet.

"No need for you to say anythin', sir. There are rules when dealing with lions and big old bears. Don't mess with 'em when they have thorns in their paws. And you, Colonel, had an entire pricker bush in yours. That can make the fiercest creatures on Earth grumpy." She threw away the waste in a bin. "Or on Atlantis."

He didn't say a word when she fussed with his pillows. "Alright, Lieutenant. But I owe you three gallons of ice cream. Just name the flavor."

The nurse beamed. "Colonel…" She whistled low. "How'd you find out my weakness?"

"Didn't become military commander without some crack recon skills."

"I'll be sure to thank Dr. Keller," Harrison chuckled before reverting back to professional. "You still good, sir? Pain level okay?"

"Not too bad," he replied, but quickly added with her stern look, "ribs still ache, but it's tolerable."

"And your leg?"

"If I don't move it then I'm fine," he said, clearing his throat.

"Guess you and Mr. Dex won't be tryin' to walk to the gym anytime soon."

Between his hip and the gash in his thigh, that wouldn't be possible for days. "I think you're stuck with me for a while… sorry."

Harrison smiled. "I'll make due, sir."

* * *

He felt like a cat playing with a toy, but he gave the swinging softball several bats, sending it spinning about. "12...G...32...C...21...7...A."

"Ahhh. 'Wery' good, Colonel. Is easy, no?" Pirogov held the ball above his lap by a string. "You can tie this to ceiling and do yourself. Just be sure you have someone write the letters and numbers in different sizes and colors."

"Gotcha." It was odd 'playing games' to improve his sight, but he'd do anything.

"You can do simple exercises. I have many newspapers for you. Take turns tacking different sections on your wall. Make sure you are three meters away and start reading the headlines, then bylines, then fine print. This will help maintain focus. Also rest your eyes often, using the palm technique you've learned."

John blinked. "Yeah, I've been doing that." When no one was looking. He slipped back on his clunky lenses. "Thank you."

Pirogov rested his plump hands on his large belly. "Is my job, but also a pleasure, my good Colonel. I am sorry your accident brought me here. But my visit has been most amazing. You do good job protecting such marvelous city. She is a beautiful lady."

Everyone always fell in love with Atlantis; she was indeed a seductive woman. John had doubted being fit for the task, but slowly, very slowly, he accepted the passing grade Atlantis and her people gave him...well, those who counted the most.

"I am sorry you lost your new glasses, but you are blessed to have such a wonderful, intelligent man who I think will be able to help you."

"What am I supposed to help with now?" Rodney pushed aside the curtain and looked up at the bushy-headed neurologist. "I've been kind of busy now that I'm not trying to keep a certain moody pilot from crashing his jumper or getting railroaded by tight asses from the IOA. Have I mentioned what I've been doing the past two weeks while Sheppard's done nothing but bitch and lay around?"

Pirogov carded his thick beard. "I was referring to Dr. Zelenka. I know he is most valuable asset to the city but I think he might find the time to make Colonel Sheppard another set of glasses."

Rodney glowered at his actions being ignored. "I dunno, I like the nerdy look. Call it karma for picking on all the geeks in school," Rodney said righteously, crossing his arms. "I'm sure Sheppard was never stuffed in his locker as a kid."

"I wasn't a jock, McKay," John grumbled. He looked up at the physician. "And about the glasses?"

"I do not predict dates, Colonel. But bleed is gone, nerves are calming down. With therapy and glasses, your vision should return close to what it was before the crash. You will be fine for flight status," he added quickly, waving his hand to calm John down. "You might have need for normal prescription lenses from now on, but not for everyday use."

"That's what happens when you hit forty. You begin falling apart," Rodney snarked.

John sent him a fiery glare but Pirogov interrupted. "I must be going. I have to get back to University. I have so much research to do."

"Thanks, Doc. Again. For everything," John said with added emphasis.

"_Budem zdorovy_, Colonel." And the eccentric man bowed and left.

"I'm not going to miss that mothball odor," Rodney muttered.

"It wasn't all that bad," John said, relaxing into his pillows, feeling wiped out already. "Beats this antiseptic smell."

"Isn't this a déjà vu moment? I come to visit and you want to fall asleep," Rodney accused.

John removed his glasses, rubbing at his eyes before slipping them back on. "My head aches and my pain meds are wearing away. Kind of feeling a bit wrung out right now." He tried adjusting his sore body, grunting at sharp and dull flares of pain down his middle.

Rodney fumbled at just standing, dashing looks at the chair. "Hmmm. Liked it more when you were less forthcoming about how you felt."

"I'm trying for more honesty, McKay," John sighed.

"Always a good policy, Colonel," Richard Pratt announced, pulling away the cloth divider. "In fact, maybe if you had let Ms. Emmagan know about the kidnap plot, you could have saved the IOA a lot of time."

Even after being cleared, the bureaucrat was finding ways to pin things on him. John opened his mouth but Rodney McKay was very good at lashing out at people who ticked him off.

"Please, save your breath. Do you not read e-mails?" Rodney snapped.

"Twenty-two filled my inbox last night. I deleted them. Couldn't risk getting a virus, could I?" Pratt grinned. "I mean, with the systems around here being so prone and all."

"If you had bothered to ask about the importance, you would have found Major Lorne's follow up report. Leora asked Sheppard to act normal to avoid raising suspicions that night."

John didn't need a defense lawyer. "I still don't recall the evening or most of the week. I probably should have mentioned it to Teyla but I'll never know what I was thinking at the time."

"Yes, well. Maybe something to keep in mind for the future." Pratt stood tall, joining his hands behind his back. "I came by to inform you that I'm turning in a revised version of my report to Stargate Command. Colonel Carter has a copy and I'd be glad to send you one."

"Oh sure, give a copy to the guy you came here to persecute _last_. How thoughtful. Did you happen to mention in there somewhere your unethical practices of interrogation?" Rodney was out of his chair, his face turning red.

"Knock it off, McKay," John said tiredly. "It's over. We both have other things to focus on."

Richard Pratt's words to him in their earlier 'interviews' still stung, having done their job. However, it took time to realize they were just verbal expressions of his own guilty conscience. The IOU guy had twisted the darker, more deeply buried aspects of his many regretful decisions, but they had finally seen the light of day. His team had helped him face those uglier versions of the truth and maybe John could reconcile with the rest one day. Something he'd never before thought possible.

Rodney McKay in the meantime was a man on a mission. "You may be willing to let this guy walk away scot free, but I'm not. I'm sure Stargate Command would like to know how he used his power to steal private medical files!"

Pratt raised a perfectly curved eyebrow. "Do you really want to discuss ethics and things like sabotage and other illegal activities that have been overlooked?"

That popped McKay off. "What about the IOA learning the real reason why you took this assignment and pursued it so eagerly? Blindly, many would say."

"_McKay_," John warned, not wanting to go there.

"No!" Rodney whirled on him. "It's… it's so asinine. He almost ruined your career! Trampled over your life!"

"I don't know what on Earth you are going on about, Dr. McKay," Pratt said annoyed.

"In 1988, Patrick Sheppard was involved in a hostile takeover of a rising energy company, Horizon Technologies. A firm your father founded from the ground up and lost to a more ruthless corporate raider type. I guess that's where you stole pages from the underhanded rule book."

Richard Pratt stood even straighter, jaw locked in place.

"I'm not the only one with connections," Rodney huffed. "Daddy was never the same after he lost the company was he?" he needled.

John didn't want to go down this road, but he'd never been given a choice since he'd been a passenger the whole time. "Rodney...give us a moment, would you?" He looked at his friend, not wanting an audience.

"Sure, whatever. Just don't, you know... revert back to a pod person before I get back."

John used both hands to push himself up, resisting the urge to groan as his ribs shifted painfully.

"He's some attack dog. Funny how you have two of them at your beck and call," Pratt scoffed.

"Don't ever talk about my people with such disrespect. Is that understood?" John growled.

"Perfectly," Pratt grit out. The bureaucrat adjusted the cuff links of his GQ suit. "I was able to keep personal bias aside. I am a professional."

"That's bull and you know it. But I don't really care. My father and I didn't exactly get along. He was an asshole and I hadn't even talked to him in years," John said exasperatedly, his father's death still a raw pain.

"Yes, I read about his passing."

John wondered if that was it? Pratt couldn't build a large enough global empire to topple his old man. Had this case been an unexpected opportunity? He shook his head as he realized he really didn't give a damn.

"Go back to the IOA, Pratt. Remind them that this place isn't as cut and dried as mission reports and budgetary concerns. We need funding. We need their support. We're at war. One that's been going on for a long time. Yeah, some of the stuff we've done here hasn't helped... but we've made progress. And we have an obligation to stick it out and help the people of this galaxy." John took a deep breath, arm braced at his side, his energy gone.

"Spoken like a true military commander, Colonel Sheppard."

John hid a smirk, knowing that was the pencil pusher's way of admitting he was wrong. He gave the man a half wave. "Thanks, Dick."

Pratt scowled but grabbed his briefcase off the floor and walked away.

"Is he gone?"

John rolled his eyes. "Yes, Rodney."

"Can you believe that arrogant, pompous prick? When the SCG gets a hold of my report - and Sam's, she wrote one, too- I bet he'll be facing an inquiry of his own."

"I doubt it," John drawled, removing his glasses and placing them on the table. "People like him slither upwards. He gets results and they don't care how. He'll probably even get a bonus. It doesn't matter, though. Because his opinion never did," John said smiling as he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

* * *

It was two very long weeks before John was sprung from the infirmary. The story of how everyone had banded together while he'd been healing had been told to him in bits and pieces as he was able to stay awake for longer periods. Keller told him it was exhaustion, completely natural given the amount of trauma his body had received from the crash and the fight with Brenon. It frustrated him, but as he grew stronger each day, he had reluctantly come to the realization that she was right. Rodney's pointed reminders that they were 'old', now that they'd crossed the thirty-nine and holding barrier, and didn't bounce back as quickly rankled but were probably also right. So he allowed the fussing and bed confinement. He read a lot more as his vision continued to improve, exercised his arms and legs and ate everything they put in front of him.

He also made an effort to keep his spirits up. It was hard at times. He couldn't stay on morphine forever, and aches and pains woke up in just about every part of his body. He'd even experienced a migraine his first week, something he thought he'd put behind him for good and good riddance. But whenever he'd hear his words get a bite to them, or he felt like withdrawing and being left alone, he reminded himself of what everyone had done. And how that made him feel. He knew that it bothered his team to see him down, so he made a concerted effort not to allow them to see it. It was the only reward he could offer them at the time. The only way he could convey his appreciation.

But now, after those two very long weeks, John found himself humming to himself contentedly as his team settled themselves in the rec room. They'd insisted he take the couch, Ronon folding his lanky form down in front and Rodney piling up a monstrous mound of pillows next to him. Teyla took the other end of the couch and spread a blanket over them as John rifled through a pile of DVDs.

It had been a good day. A productive day. His first visit had been to Radek's lab. The little Czech had been delighted by his gift. John had made arrangements with some of his Air Force connections for Radek to be flown to Russia during his next leave and a suite at the five star luxury _Baltschug Kempinski _hotel right on Red Square was his for a week. Money had never ruled his life like it had his father and brother's but that didn't mean it wasn't nice to have access to it on occasion. And Radek was ecstatic at the thought of hanging with Pirogov at the University. John envisioned days filled with geek talk and nights of vodka shots.

Carter had been next. And the toughest. He wound up tapping on the shoulders of men he knew to 'know someone who knew someone' and was able to put together a box of items he thought she might like. The Colonel had smiled and blushed as she pulled out packages of candy bars, teabags, gourmet coffee and even a box of HoHos. But the bottle of single malt scotch got the biggest and best reaction.

Major Lorne had been the easiest. After Colonel Carter had filled him in on what the younger man had done, even while holding his temporary command position, John sat down and wrote up the most glowing commendation letter he could think of and had Chuck ask Walter to put it directly on Landry's desk. A new set of Nike clubs, just like the ones Tiger Woods used, was on order, but the major had been more pleased with John's promise to play a few rounds of 'pier golf' with him once he'd healed up more.

"So what's tonight's feature?" Rodney asked as he grabbed the bowl of microwave popcorn. "And please don't say _Die Hard_. I'm sorry if I couldn't quote every stupid line like you can, but I have seen it before and I've gotta say… not that impressed. I rooted for Alan Rickman."

John fought a smile and handed over the DVD from the top of the pile.

Rodney groaned as he looked at the cover. "_Harry Potter_? Are you serious? What did you suddenly become eight years old again?"

"That the kid on the broom?" Ronon grunted doubtfully.

"Yes, it's the kid on the broom, but hear me out, guys." He rubbed the back of his neck as he considered his words, then slumped against the pillows at his back and averted his eyes to the patterned blanket. "See, I wound up finishing the books. I'd already started them a month ago. Then these last couple weeks, well, I just kinda plowed through them. I mean, they aren't exactly _War and Peace _- thank God - and they are pretty easy to read. And yeah, they're kinda for kids but Harry… See he's this kid who has a really crappy home life. Feels like he really doesn't fit in with the family he lives with, and he kinda just muddles through his days without any hope of things getting better. Then one day he meets someone who tells him he is special. He's got something in his blood… like a magic gene… and… well, he winds up in a place he never could've imagined was real, not in his wildest dreams."

His team was quiet and John squirmed with the attention, but this was something he had to do. Even if he had to convey it through a stupid children's book. "When he gets there, he makes new friends. There's a girl, Hermione, who's smart and fiery and independent. Fiercely loyal. And a smart but socially maladjusted geek named Ron, who knows a little something about being picked on. He and Harry hit it off immediately. And then there's Hagrid. He's this giant, scary looking guy but he's got a heart of gold. And really big hair… Yeah, I think the metaphor's a little too literal with you, Ronon. Anyway… they help Harry fight off the big bad evil, along with about seven novels worth of other characters. And Harry loses some people he loves along the way… but… yeah. Anything else I say would just ruin it, you know?" he asked as he finally looked up.

Teyla reached over and patted his leg. "I would love to see this movie. Thank you, John."

Rodney smiled as he stuck the disc into the player. "I heard it has really neat special effects," he conceded.

Ronon appeared to consider, then eased back against the couch, grabbing the bowl of popcorn from Rodney. "The giant guy sounds cool."

"He is," John said quietly as he put on his glasses and settled in for the start of the movie. "They all are."

Fini-

* * *

Author notes:

Kristen's:

I wanted to thank my partner in crime for all her late night chats, phone calls, and last inning heroics on this monster. Always love writing with my Ms. Grammar Ogre and this was indeed a wonderful time.

We write for ourselves things we want to see and have a sense of glee and accomplishment when its all said and done, but seeing how much our readers were excited was a huge reward. Bear hugs to those who left us feedback and Ronon hugs to those amazing people who hung on to every chapter and gave us love.

We really appreciated it. After six months of planning and writing it was the best gift.

Thank you-

Beth's:

Herein is my author's note, quick and dirty. Thank you. Thank you to those who joined us on this journey. Thank you to those who participated with your concrit and kind words. And enthusiasm! Boy, as things started coming to the end we could feel the whips coming out, urging us onward, faster. This was MY kind of fic, and it was really fricking cool to see that others enjoyed it so much as well.

And thank you to my awesome co-author. We nursed this baby for six months and now it's bittersweet, seeing it leave the nest for the last time. My only consolation is knowing that this is certainly not our last work together.

Lastly, I offer a little map to some things that got mentioned throughout the story that may have stymied and mystified some -okay - most of you. My bad. I get a little happy with the pop culture references and it's no fun reading a joke you're not in on.

Les Nessman is a character on _WKRP in Cincinnati_. He protests his lack of an office by placing tape on the floor to symbolize walls. Rent the DVDs. I cannot urge you enough.

When Rodney calls Ronon "Lennie" it's a reference to _Of Mice and Men_. Lennie is the mentally disabled man who likes bunnies and pretty ladies.

_Prophecy_ was a cheesy 70's horror movie I was fortunate enough to see first run at the drive-in. One of those cautionary eco-movies. Scared the poop outa me.

Mr. Magoo was a cartoon character who couldn't see his hand in front of his face. That was the shtick. That's it.

Oh, and catching fish with a stick of dynamite… that's for mei-mei.

PLEASE feel free to email me if anything else left you feeling "huh?" In fact, feel free to email me, period. Suddenly find myself with some time on my hands…


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